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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380267">Operation Zero</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redbone135/pseuds/Redbone135'>Redbone135</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV) Spoilers, Time Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:28:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>89,437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380267</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redbone135/pseuds/Redbone135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Time Travel AU. A new curse has arrived in Storybrooke shortly after the missing year. But this time, it doesn't take the heroes to a new realm, instead it carries them back in time, scattering them across 1960s Dallas Texas, with no memories of their previous selves (both cursed and uncursed). Until Henry arrives, tasked with gathering his missing family and getting everyone home to break the curse. What he finds is his family has moved on: Snow has remarried and is embroiled in the civil rights movement, David is a prize bare-knuckle boxer earning paychecks from the mafia, Rumple - plagued by his ghostly son Neal, acting as his conscience - has "accidentally" started the Cult of The Dark One, Killian has ended up in a mental asylum for insisting he really is Captain Hook, and Emma is MIA. Determined to save his family, Henry must persuade them to leave these new lives before it is too late - not only for them, but those that they love. The first chapter has time jumps (clearly labeled, hopefully) but the rest is told in chronological order. (Heavily follows/is based on season 2 of The Umbrella Academy).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Baelfire | Neal Cassidy/Emma Swan, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Milah, Lily | Lilith Page/Emma Swan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Right Back Where We Started</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please read notes first:<br/>- I would like to start this fic off with an apology. One of the many things that makes The Umbrella Academy great is it’s myriad of characters of color. However, when casting Once characters, I did not have as much variety to choose from. Casting Mary Margaret in the role of Allison is the big one that comes to mind (Though Diego, Lila, and Ben also suffered). I understand why that decision is problematic, and I do apologize from the bottom of my heart. Know that I tried other casting options, and even considered cutting out the storyline, but at the end of the day I tried to do justice to that plotline with what I had. I apologize if it is not nearly enough.<br/>-The second thing I want to do is give a warning. If you are here and unfamiliar with The Umbrella Academy, be aware that this fic is very violent. Not nearly as violent as it’s source material because I wanted to keep Henry in character as much as possible, but still far more than is typical in the Once fandom. Be aware that characters die. Some even stay dead. If you are sensitive to that, this is probably not the story for you and I don’t want you to be surprised by it. If I have tagged incorrectly or missed one, please let me know and I would be more than happy to add it.<br/>-I never planned on sharing this. It was just a fun project for me and me alone. That being said, I sunk enough hours into it that a few of my friends asked me to post it. Please keep that in mind and remember to be kind - despite what it looks like, this was a lot of work and very hard to put together, so I’m a tad sensitive about it.<br/>-Lastly, thank you, as always, for taking the time to read. You have no idea how much it means to me!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <em> <strong>Dallas, Texas, 1960</strong> </em> </span>
</p><p>Rumpelstiltskin, The Dark One, The Maker of Deals, the ancient and powerful, came crashing down into the alleyway in the most undignified manner. His head cracked against the the pavement, his ribs ached with the impact, and he was fairly certain he had torn his suit jacket in the fall. The fall from where? He had been at home, drowning his regrets in an evening glass of whiskey when…</p><p>“Dad?”</p><p>He must have hit his head harder than he thought, because Neal was standing there, only an arm’s length away, his brow furrowed in just as much confusion.</p><p>He must have hit his head. There was no other alternative… because Neal was…</p><p>“Where are we?”</p><p>That was a good question, but also one Rumple couldn’t have cared less about, running forward to wrap his arms around his son in an abundance of joy, only to find himself crashing through his boy and stumbling into the wall behind them. </p><p>They both blinked in confusion, turning to face each other again as Neal reached out a hand and waved it through his fathers shoulder.</p><p>“The last thing I remember,” Neal began, the pain on his face mirrored in his father’s, “We were in the woods. And Emma… Emma… was there… Papa, am I dead?”</p><p>“We might both be,” Rumple mumbled, dusting himself off before pushing out of the alley to take a look at the world around them. This certainly wasn’t Storybrooke. It also wasn’t 2014 anymore, he realized as a woman passed by in a floral dress pushing an old-fashioned pram, the men on the streets dressed far more similar to Rumple's neat attire than his son's casual look. At least he would blend in.</p><p>He turned to make his way down the street, surveying his surroundings with care. This was very strange. And reeked of magic. Which meant there was one woman in particular he would need to find and speak to. </p><p>“Hello! Can anyone see me!” Neal was yelling at passers by, waving his hands in the air as the people on the street continued to ignore him. Jogging to catch up to his father he reached out, his hand passing through Rumple’s shoulder as Neal sighed in frustration. “Papa, you try.”</p><p>Already figuring the response he would get, Rumple turned to stop a man in a fedora.</p><p>“Excuse me, sir, can you tell me the date. I seem to have forgotten.”</p><p>The man nodded, reluctantly offering, “Thursday the 11th.”</p><p>Well, that wasn’t much to go on, but it did prove one thing.</p><p>“So I am dead,” Neal said, throwing his arms up in the air as his father thanked the passerby and turned to continue his stroll down the street. </p><p>Because Maybe Neal was dead. But he was here. With him. And that was more than Rumple could have asked for. So whatever this new curse, this new magical malady was, it couldn’t be all bad. </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> <strong>Dallas, Texas, 1961</strong> </em> </span>
</p><p>Mary Margaret Blanchard hit the pavement in a crumpled heap, hands stretched skyward as if she had been reaching for another person. Another person who never arrived. And now that she thought very hard about it, she wasn’t sure who that other person might be. She had very little recollection of who she was, if she was being honest. She knew her name, her birthday, and that she was not supposed to be here. And looking down at her stomach, she realized, she was also very pregnant. </p><p>But as she pushed herself into a sitting position - scrambling to get into a comfortable enough angle to stand - that vague, soft memory of reaching for another person began to fade as well and leave her comfortably numb, if not a little confused. </p><p>With a heavy sigh she reached out to touch the ache in her elbow, fingertips coming away with blood. She had scraped it on the pavement in her fall. The fall that was already starting to disappear from her memory. But the blood remained very real. </p><p>Standing, she surveyed the street across from the alley, eyes passing over a theater and a bank and landing on a diner next door. That seemed like as good a place as any to find help.</p><p>Looking both ways, she crossed the road, pushing open the door and turning to take in a setting that felt strange and new, but just like her forgotten fall in the alley, began to fade into something more comfortable. The year was 1961, of course it was, it would be silly to think otherwise. And this diner, well there was nothing strange about being in a 60s diner in the 60s. She felt silly for her moment of surprise. </p><p>“Sweetie, where’s your husband?” the waitress asked as Mary Margaret struggled to find the words she was looking for. Something about help. About blood. About the pain in her elbow. </p><p>Instead she said, “I don’t have a husband.”</p><p>At least not one she could remember. She had a ring on her finger. But no memory of a husband. No memory of ever loving anyone, really. If she thought long and hard enough she remembered that her mother had died when she was young, and her father had passed not long after. But even that effort hurt her head, so she merely repeated herself for the confused staff, and a little for her confused self. “I don’t have a husband. But I need help.”</p><p>Suddenly the crowd didn’t look as friendly as they had before. In fact, all eyes began to hostilely drift downward to her rounded belly, and Mary Margaret realized what she had said was not the correct answer. </p><p>“Why don’t I escort you out,” leered a gentleman in a booth near the widow, sending a chill down Mary Margaret’s spine. “I’ll make sure you get all the help you need, baby girl.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> <strong>Dallas, Texas, 1962</strong> </em> </span>
</p><p>It was raining when David Nolan came crashing down into the alleyway, hurtling towards concrete, his hands outstretched to break his fall, as if he had been trying to hold tight to something that had already slipped right through his fingers. But as he tried to remember, the rain washed over him, carrying any traces of his past and the memories associated with it away.</p><p>He was alone, and slightly bruised, in any alley he had never seen before, but was starting to feel more and more comfortable the longer he sat in it. </p><p>However comfortable, though, no matter what he did he couldn’t shake the vague feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be here. That he was missing something. Someone.</p><p>A name came crashing through his head, loud and clear like the ringing of a bell.</p><p>
  <em> Snow.  </em>
</p><p>He couldn’t make sense of it, but he screamed it out into the rain like a battle cry, his voice reverberating off the walls and enveloping him in a cocoon of sound.</p><p>As all his other memories washed away, he held tight to that one name, shouting it into existence, etching it into the grooves of his mind.</p><p>If he forgot everything else he would remember that one name.</p><p>“SNOW!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> <strong>Dallas, Texas, 1963 - February</strong> </em> </span>
</p><p>Killian Jones landed, cat-like, on the balls of his feet, his one good hand pressed against the pavement to steady himself as he looked around. This wasn't Storybrooke. And where was everyone else?</p><p>They had been at Granny’s, he seemed to recall. He had bought Emma a nice warm meal and made awkward small talk about the boy the two of them had lost this week. No, the man. Killian had to remind himself that while Baelfire would always feel a little like his boy, he was more than that to Emma. </p><p>None of which was relevant now, because somehow he was in an alleyway, a bespectacled, redheaded man watching him through curtains as if Killian was some sort of freak. </p><p>Then again, a one-handed pirate falls out of the sky, that is bound to confuse a few onlookers.</p><p>He waves awkwardly back to the man in the window, watching the drapes fall closed just as there is a scream from outside the alley.</p><p>“Help, somebody help me!”</p><p>And, well, Killian is supposed to be a hero now. Or at least he’s trying to be. For Emma. And for the boy he lost. </p><p>Quickly he makes his way out of the alley, scanning the streets until his eyes come to rest on a woman wrestling with a masked man for her purse.</p><p>“Aye, mate, leave her alone,” Killian says, suantering over.</p><p>The man turns to him and chuckles, “And who are you supposed to be, Nancy Boy?”</p><p>“I’m Captain fucking Hook,” Killian growls, bringing the sharp point of his hook down into he man's shoulder, blood seeping out quickly around the edges of the wound. “Now why don’t you give the lady her purse back?”</p><p>Without waiting for an answer, Killian rips the purse from the man’s grip, using the heel of his boot to push the man backward, off his hook, before turning to smile sweetly at the shocked woman to his left.</p><p>“I believe this is yours?”</p><p>She nods, dumbfounded as she takes the purse in both hands, backing away from him slowly.</p><p>And Killian has to admit, it feels pretty damn good to be one of the good guys for once. </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> <strong>Dallas, Texas, 1963 - September</strong> </em> </span>
</p><p>Emma has no recollection of how long she has been in that alley. She doesn’t know how she got there. Or when. Or why. She must have hit her head at some point because there’s a painful pulse right above her left eye and dried blood crusted underneath her fingernails. In fact, her shirt is torn and her arms are bruised as if she were grappling with someone right before… before what? Everything before now is like a blank slate. She knows only one fact.</p><p>Her name is Emma.</p><p>Confused and still in pain - from what she has no recollection - she stumbles out of the alley and into the street, overwhelmed by all of the bright colors and loud noises that suddenly surround her. None of them triggering any new memories.</p><p>She stops, completely paralyzed with fear, her mind feels as if someone is squeezing everything from it and panic is the only thing she has left to keep her grip on. So she holds tight to that one last, little fact: her name is Emma.</p><p>There’s another loud, new noise - what Emma recognizes too late is a car horn - and then she is thrown backward, a new pain erupting in her hip where she was hit and another in the back of her head as it collides with the asphalt of the street. </p><p>She tries her best to keep breathing calmly, to keep holding on to that one little fact that she won’t surrender as the fingers of magic twist and pull at the corners of her mind to rip it away from her. It is very important to someone somewhere that she forget.</p><p>And so Emma plans to remember. Her name is Emma.</p><p>“Oh my God,” comes a sweet, comforting voice as two car doors slam and suddenly Emma’s field of view is completely filled with two soft smiles. “Are you alright? You just ran right out in front of me, I didn’t have time… I am so sorry.”</p><p>Emma shakes her head, clearing it of anything but those two soft smiles, a brunette woman about her age with a lopsided grin and deep, dark eyes, and a little girl who grips the woman’s hand, tiny brown eyes wide with confusion - the spitting image of her mother.</p><p>“I’m Lily, this is Starla, what's your name?” The woman says, extending a hand with a star-shaped birthmark to help the blonde up from her spot in front of the car.</p><p>“I’m Emma,” Emma offers, and just like that the panic - and the magic tendrils causing it - seem to relax. Everything else is gone. But Emma gets to keep her name.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> <strong>Storybrooke, Maine, 2014</strong> </em> </span>
</p><p>“Henry wake up,” Regina cried, her voice high-pitched and desperate, hearing his mother that emotional was something that startled and frightened Henry as he sat up in bed, looking into the midnight dark eyes of Regina Mills. “Sweetie, there isn’t much time.”</p><p>“What’s going on?” he asked as his mother began to pull clothing from his closet in a panic, handing the soft sweater and slacks to him in a flurry of confusion. </p><p>“She’s here,” Regina mumbled, more to herself than her son, halfheartedly pointing to the window where Henry could see a slow green mist creeping out over the town. Another curse.</p><p>“Who’s here? What-”</p><p>“Listen carefully,” Regina interrupted, taking Henry by his wrists and dragging him out of his room and down the hall, digging in her dresser to produce a leather cuff that looked something like a bracelet. “You must remember, put that on as soon as you go through.”</p><p>“Go through where!?” Henry insisted, watching his mother turn to dig around some more, mumbling about an extra one as she threw objects over his shoulder. </p><p>“There’s another curse on it’s way, Henry, and I can’t stop it!”</p><p>“Where is it sending us?” Henry insisted, pocketing the cuff and reaching out for his mother.</p><p>“Not where,” Regina corrected, stopping to smile sadly at her son. “When. It’s going to scatter you across time, and I need you to remember. To find Emma. And the others. You’ll know what to do.”</p><p>It was then, as her hands slipped from his, that he realized she was already wearing one of the leather cuffs. She wasn’t going with them.</p><p>“What did you do!?” He screamed, the noise overshadowed by the cracking of the door frame, octopus-like tentacles twisting in to reach for him as his mother raised her hands, a thin layer of magic standing between them and the three women who had just pushed their way into the room. </p><p>“Find the others,” Regina repeated, straining under the effort of holding back the witches as their magic began to press back against her own. “They’ll know what to do. Find Emma.”</p><p>"But how?"</p><p>"You'll find all your answers in the questions you are left with," she insists, pressing a kiss to his forehead.</p><p>“Mom,” Henry breathed, “Please.”</p><p>But he didn’t know what he was begging for. </p><p>“You can fix this,” she whispered as she tucked an envelope into his pocket, and then she dropped her shield, diverting her magic to a wave of force, pushing him backward and through the window into that cloud of green smoke. And as Henry was swallowed by the new curse - the sickly magic that was tugging people though time all across town - his eyes fixed on his mother as the third witch, draped in white furs and diamonds, brought a knife to Regina’s throat, blood red as lipstick causing him to flinch away as he dug in his pocket for that leather cuff and placed it on his wrist, bracing for impact.</p><p>And so he was right back where he had started a year ago, alone and uncursed, looking for his mother in a strange city, armed with nothing but a little magic and a lot of hope.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Forever and A Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <strong>Dallas, Texas, 1963 - November</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry’s feet land in a puddle, the leather cuff at his wrist glowing brightly like a protective shield left by his mother. He could feel that sick, dark magic shrinking away from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And two eyes on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up to the window above the alley to see a familiar face staring back, a large camera concealing half his face. But Henry would have recognized that face anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Archie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The window slammed closed, two drapes being pulled quickly back in front of the face. Well, that was easier than Henry had expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took the stairs to the apartment building two at a time, remembering how it hadn’t been long ago he and Emma had helped Mr. Gold search the apartments in New York for his dad. It didn’t take long to find the apartment he was looking for: “Hopper’s Psychiatry” printed in big, bold letters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry began to bang on the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Archie! Open up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he heard a meek voice from the other side of the door whisper. “I’m no longer taking new clients at this time. Or old clients. Go away!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry sighed. So they were going to do this the hard way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dropping to one knee, Henry fumbled with the lock on the door the way Emma had taught him. The way his father had taught her. It wasn’t long before the door made that oh-so-satisfying click and he was able to push his way inside to find Archie cowering in the kitchen doorway, a frying pan gripped in one hand, a butter knife in the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down,” Henry said, holding up his hands, “I’m just a kid… no need to break out the … frying pan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you one of them?” Archie asked, still not lowering the frying pan and butter knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that was a different question. Henry had been expecting ‘Who are you?’ Not ‘One of them’. ‘One of them’ implied someone had already been here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes…” Henry tried awkwardly. “I’m one of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew it!” Archie yelped, backing up a few more feet as he continued to brandish his homemade weapons. “I knew it! They said I was crazy, but I knew it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been there,” Henry chuckled, kicking off his shoes and making his way over to the table where he swept aside the clutter and sat down the envelope his mother had shoved in his pocket. “In fact, about a year ago, you were the one telling me I was crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was?” Archie asked, finally putting down his weapons to come look at the envelope on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, what do you think is going on here?” Henry asked, trying to tear at the edges. But every time he did, the stupid leather cuff around his wrist began to sting. So the bracelet protected him from ALL magic, not just the curse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aliens,” Archie breathed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aliens… no… what… wait,” Henry stuttered, watching Archie pick up the envelope and yelp in pain. Of course, Regina wasn’t going to let just anyone open the damn thing. So Henry had to find whoever it was meant for. Simple enough. Except he had no clue who it was meant for. Emma, maybe?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, aliens. I started seeing them about three years ago. Everyone said I was crazy. Had to shut down my practice, no one wanted a crazy therapist. But I wasn’t crazy, I knew what I saw. Falling from the sky!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many?” Henry asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few, maybe six, including you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, so Henry had six Storybrooke residents to round up. And one of them would be able to open the envelope. That was assuming Archie had been the first one through the portal... curse... hazy mist thing that had sent them all here. If he wasn’t… there could be any number of residents running around in the past, playing with the timeline. And it was Henry’s job to find them and… do what exactly? Stop them from messing up the timeline. Get them to remember who they were? Regina hadn’t been too specific... Then again, she had said Emma was the key. So he should probably start looking for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, these alien visitors,” Henry began, “Any of them a blonde woman? Kinda standoffish? Maybe a little magical?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, I didn’t really get a great look at all of them,” Archie answered, moving around Henry to open a desk drawer and pull out a packet of black and white photographs. “The first one was male, older. And then there was the big one who kept screaming ‘Snow!’ whatever that means. That one actually came back a couple times to the alley, I always thought he was looking for someone, maybe you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry shook his head. That would be David. So if he was sticking to the theory that there were only five of them - plus him and Archie of course - then there were only two unknowns. David, Snow, and Emma would be three for sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry continued to riffle through the photos, grainy, to be sure, but he was pretty sure Mr. Gold was one of the others. And the last mystery person was just a little black ball curled up on the sidewalk, too dark and blurry to tell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Archie,” Henry said calmly, “These people are my family. And I need to find them. Can you help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched Archie swallow for a moment before digging back into the drawer and handing a newspaper clipping to Henry. “That’s the only one I’ve been able to keep track of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The headline read ‘Disturbed Man With Hook For Hand Arrested Near Canton Street: Suspect Claims To Be Captain Hook’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there was the last resident. Henry groaned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you do me a favor, Archie,” Henry asked, tucking the newspaper clipping away in his pocket, “Don’t go anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So maybe Killian could admit that announcing he was Captain Hook had not been the best plan. Maybe he could admit that vigilante justice was a little high profile for someone who didn’t know where he was or why he had been suddenly, and very magically, deposited there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Killian could admit that being thrown into a mental institution was the worst possible outcome of this scenario.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what Killian couldn’t admit was simple enough. He couldn’t admit that he was making it all up. Because he wasn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he had spent his first three months heavily medicated, and more than a little hostile, struggling to remember his ABCs, much less the date they seemed to want him to remember - 1963. That was the year... apparently. Whatever. This wasn’t the first magical portal or flying sailboat - or whatever else you wanted to call it - that had taken Killian somewhere new and unknown. God forbid he try to make the best of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his next three months had been better. Because that was when <em>she</em> arrived. And he had recognized her immediately, despite her absolute refusal to admit she’d ever seen him before. To admit that her name wasn’t Cassidy like she claimed, but was in fact the very same one he had tattooed on his forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he had started taking the meds they gave him, started showing up to group therapy even, in a desperate attempt to get closer to Milah. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian, would you like to share?” The therapist asked. No one acknowledged the two empty chairs on either side of him and Milah. They’d taken his hook away, but he still had a habit of getting his hands on objects that were functionally knives in here. And neither he, nor Milah, liked it when the genuinely insane got a little too close to them in group. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No I would not,” he answered frankly, tapping his foot against the leg of his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian, if you want us to reconsider your placement next week, you are going to need to open up a bit. Show us you’ve grown a little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah snorted from where she sat, twirling her hair, next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t want to talk about…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How I’m Captain Hook? No, because you don’t believe me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe, at this point, that was a crazy thing to say. But he was up for reevaluation next week and crazy kept him close to Milah. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well let’s discuss why you might identify with such a villainous character, Killian. Do you think you might be projecting some guilt about past childhood traumas onto a recognizable character from your childhood literature.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I think I’m literally Captain Hook. I’m a villain. I tried to be a hero. You guys arrested me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched the doctor scribble something down on his notepad as Milah chuckled from the seat next to him, gripping her paper water cup so tightly it had indents from her fingerprints.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know what he’s talking about,” she chuckled, her voice full of wry humor, “I once had sex with Rumpelstiltskin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Killian’s heart raced. Did she remember?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then the rest of the group began to laugh, and she right along with it, and so he had to assume it was nothing more than an eerily accurate joke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cassidy, remember: if we can’t respect the other patients in group, we can’t participate in group.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes but leaned in close. “Sorry, Captain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart fluttered again with memories of when she used to call him that. Of her fingernails digging into his flesh, long brown locks bouncing over her shoulder to the rhythm of him and the sea. It had taken him exactly one week with Milah to forget ever having known Emma Swan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s all right,” he said with a soft smile her way, before turning back to the doctor. “I suppose when I say crazy things I should expect a crazy response. Mil- Cassidy was just putting things into perspective for me. I suppose you are correct, I felt complicit in my brother’s death growing up, and that has often led me to label myself a villain. But as you were saying last week, I have to be honest with myself about my past so I can be honest about my present.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor gave him a cautiously encouraging look while Killian faked wiping a few tears from his eyes to really drive his performance home. Milah rolled her eyes again, waiting for the doctor to turn away before leaning in so close he could smell the salt of her skin as she whispered, “You’re so full of shit, Killy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The doctor didn’t seem to think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah he did, but he can’t call you on it in front of us. I mean, it would be a little discouraging to watch him tear you a new one after such an emotional performance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much do you want to bet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three Jellos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he laughed with a tilt of his head, pushing himself out of his chair as Milah watched, making his way over to the doctor while Milah spread out across both their chairs in a pose that could have been interpreted as suggestive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Doc, I was hoping to talk to you about my progress,” he began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the doctor only scoffed. “What progress, Killian. You’re a compulsive liar. You’ll say anything to get me off your back and make the girls laugh. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you ever want to get out of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a glance back at Milah, who was now miming eating what he had to assume was Jello, he questioned whether he really wanted to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean I’m trying as hard as I can doc,” he pleaded, putting on more crocodile tears, “What more can you ask from me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian, now, let’s not get agitated,” the doctor warned, nervously eyeing the security by the door. “Let’s just stay calm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can I stay calm when you’re telling me I’m going to be locked in this shithole forever!” He shouted, reaching forward to grip the doctor by his shoulder with his one good hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The security was quick, wrapping arms around his waist to lift him away from the doctor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Killian was quicker, pocketing the pen from the doctor’s coat even faster. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, it’s all right,” Killian said, holding up his arms as they wrestled him back into a chair, “I’m calm now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian Jones,” a small woman said, poking her head through the entryway door, “You have a visitor. He says his name is Henry Mills?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And for the first time since Killian had started taking the pills they offered him here, he very suddenly wasn’t calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian could not believe his eyes as the nurses brought him into the little visiting room at the asylum. It was Henry all right. He sat on the other side of the table, hands folded neatly in front of him, that overly cheerful smile everyone else seemed to find adorable but drove the pirate absolutely mad, fixed firmly on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello Henry,” he said, pulling out the chair and seating himself across from the boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry looked a little startled for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. “Hello Hook.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I suppose you know what’s going on here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. And to be honest I’m surprised you remember me. Archie didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s Archie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never mind. How long have you been here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here in the hospital, or here in… wherever this is?” Hook said, gesturing vaguely around the two. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably the second one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little under ten months.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Henry mumbled, pausing to think. “So if we split up we might be able to find the others a little faster. I’ve got a bit of a lead on Charming and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” Hook interrupted quickly, “I’m not leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry gave him a quizzical look. “Are you trying to get me to persuade you? Cause it’s been a rough day and if I’m being completely honest, I’m not going to. You aren’t all that important in the grand scheme of things, Hook, you were just the easiest to find. And as long as you’re locked up here, you aren’t messing with the timeline. So… if you don’t want to go, I’m not going to make you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hook nodded. “Well thank you for the visit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry looked stunned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can go now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Henry made his way to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and Henry… when you find your mother… tell her I’m sorry. For everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma can’t remember what she did before she met Lily Page and her family. She had no memory of jobs or families. Of useful skills. But she made a pretty good nanny, and working with Lily’s daughter Starla filled her with both joy and a longing ache, so she assumed there had to have been a child left behind in her past life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took out ads in the paper, hung posters around town, listened intently to the local gossip, desperate to find out who this missing child was and why she wanted to get back to it so badly. But to no avail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so in the meantime, Starla would have to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was your day?” Lily asked, closing the front door with her hip as Emma rushed to help her carry in the groceries she was struggling with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both women waited for the little girl, focused on her toys on the carpet, to answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But like always, Starla remained mute and evasive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We had a great day,” Emma chuckled, “Didn’t we Starla? We went to visit the horses, and read some fairy tales. It was a happy, uneventful day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily’s shoulders seemed to sag with relief at the word 'uneventful'. Emma couldn’t imagine the stress she had been under before a nanny had literally fallen into their laps. Well, into the front of their car, but semantics weren’t important. Lily was happier, and Starla was calmer, and Emma almost felt content. Except for the small, nagging feeling that somewhere there was a child missing her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any news from town?” she asked, leaning against the counter as Lily stretched on her toes to slide groceries onto the top shelf, the hem of her skirt snagging uncomfortably on one of the drawer handles. Lily always looked so uncomfortable in skirts, but it was what all the other wives who lived in their little town on the outskirts of Dallas wore, and Lily was always so concerned with what the others might think. The town already whispered and talked, with her strange birthmark and the child that didn’t speak, people whispered that something was off about Lily Page. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, hon, sorry,” Lily mumbled, turning to face Emma with a grimace, “Any new memories?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, hon, sorry,” Emma smiled, mimicking Lily’s subtle, southern accent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both laughed, enjoying the company as Emma began to set the table for dinner and Lily started her work of preparing the family meal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A meal that was much less pleasant when Lily’s husband returned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t that there was anything particularly wrong with Carl Page, but he was loud and aggressive, and while his swearing didn’t make Emma uncomfortable, it seemed to bother Lily. And <em>that</em> made Emma uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was loud, and presumptuous, and a bit of a drunk, too. But none of that bothered Emma as much as the way Lily seemed to squirm in her chair with embarrassment whenever he began a long winded rant, filled to the brim with colorful language, about something no one at the table seemed to care about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he never stayed long. He always snuck off, back to work after each meal, and Emma, Lily, and Starla could sink back into what had fast become a routine for the three of them. Comfortable conversation, the record player running while they sat on the floor and played dolls. Lily and Emma carrying the conversation of course, but Starla would enthusiastically wave her own doll around to let them know when they were getting it right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that unbridled enthusiasm made Emma miss her phantom child most of all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple didn’t know a lot about cars - particularly not of the stolen variety - but he was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to leak smoke quite as much as his current vehicle was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been forever and a day since he’d arrived here, overjoyed to have his son’s soul as a companion and the freedom of a world without magic laid out before them like the second chance at the relationship they’d never had. He had started out so hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to hear it,” he hissed, holding up his hand as Neal leaned over the passenger seat - having learned a few new ghost tricks since their arrival - grinning like a fool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate to say ‘I told you so’...” Neal trailed off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I told you so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There it is,” Rumple groaned, getting out of the car and slamming the door, ignoring the way Neal drifted through the car's frame behind him, that smug smile still in place as Rumple reached for his walking stick and began to limp his way back in the vague direction of Dallas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ready to admit I was right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been three years, I haven’t caved yet,” Rumple smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ready to tell my why we’re headed back to Dallas?” Neal prompted in that same overly-patient tone Rumple had come to loath. He loved his son, really, he did, but three years tied to the hip had become a little much. And Neal was always so hard on his morally-grey plans. A little privacy would do them a world of good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa, you can’t just start a cult in California and then run out on them when you get bored.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s working so far.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re just gonna hitchhike back to Dallas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s working so far.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could leave, you know,” Neal grumbled as he continued to trail his father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they both knew it wasn’t true. No one else could see Neal. They’d tried everything, and aside from a few words on an Ouija board and the occasional ability to touch solid objects, Neal’s life - or lack-there-of - was pretty heavily linked to his father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have fun,” Rumple smiled, offering his son a fake wave over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal shook his head, reaching out and punching his father in his shoulder. He still couldn’t touch others, but he could beat the hell out of his dad when he was being an idiot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple grimaced. “Throwing a ghostly temper tantrum there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time Neal hit harder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m the drama queen here,” Neal mumbled, biting his tongue for the rest of their walk to a gas station a couple miles down the road. And for once in his afterlife, he was glad he couldn’t feel things like the simmering heart rising off the pavement. Couldn’t smell things like the roadkill and diesel he was sure were plaguing his father. Was glad he couldn’t taste his own sweat dripping down his face. As he watched his dad stumble into the gas station to enact his next plan, listening to the little tinkle of the bell above the door, Neal wished being a ghost might dull his sense of sight and sound a little too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You lost, old man?” drawled one of the men inside the shop as Rumple made his way up to the counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quite the contrary,” Neal’s father answered back, ignoring the distaste in the shop patron’s voice. “I’m exactly where I want to be. Or I’m on my way, at least. You wouldn’t happen to know when the next bus to Dallas is passing through, would you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man behind the counter chuckled and exchanged a glance with the patron. When he opened his mouth to answer it was in a mock lilt of Rumples voice. “It’s scheduled to pass through this time tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The patron, not bothering with a mock accent opened his mouth with a grin, “And you sure as hell ain’t waitin’ here for it dressed like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. His cult-leader clothes. Rumple had also detested them at first, missed his dark suits dearly, but they were comfortable, and stylish in some parts of the places he’d been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Told you the white zoot suit was a bad idea,” Neal said with a roll of his eyes, eyeing the candy at the front counter a little longingly. “I’m sure the tattoos don’t help either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, the tattoos. He was a bit old for them, but he liked the twin daggers - modeled after his own missing one - tattooed on his wrists. The chain around his neck where he wore a chipped piece of porcelain danged down the neck of his suit, hanging above his other tattoo, a rose with softly wilting petals. That one hadn’t been for the cult. That one had been more for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes drifted to the back of the shop, where a group of men sat gathered around a folding table, cards in hand and dollars on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Poker,” he grinned, rolling up his sleeves, “Deal me in, gentlemen. I could use the money for a bus ticket.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The men exchanged a few skeptical glances before making room for him at the table. Rumple grinned as he watched Neal make his way around to the other side to get a peak at their cards.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Crazy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rumple had never been very good at cards. But he was, not surprisingly, doing very well today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course, the more he won, the more hostile the locals became. And the more hostile the locals became, the cockier Rumple got. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’d up the ante, gentlemen, but I’m already all in,” he smiled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll take the necklace, it’s probably worth something,” one of the men at the table suggested, smiling at his own cards as he leered at the silver chain with the bit of porcelain attached to the end that Rumple never took off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s bluffing,” Neal mumbled from his spot behind the other card player, where he had been busing himself by shoving individual pieces of gum into the other players' pockets. “He’s got nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is worth something,” Rumple said, his smile growing strained as he removed it, “But only to me, I’m afraid. In exchange, shall we add your transportation to the pot? I could use a new car. That is, unless, you’re bluffing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grinned at Neal behind the man, who gave him a halfhearted thumbs-up before sticking another piece of gum in the man’s pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without another word the man slid his keys into the pile and flipped his cards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Full house,” the dealer announced, “Kings over sevens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Rumple said, forcing his smile not to crack, “that’s certainly not nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I mention I don’t actually know how to play poker?” Neal laughed with a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man reached for the pile, but Rumple stopped him, pressing his hand down firmly over the necklace and the car keys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You lookin’ for a fight, old timer?” the man asked, pushing the table back so hard Rumple was tossed onto the floor, keys still in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just looking for a ride,” Rumple smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa, don’t,” Neal warned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The men were on him quickly enough, forcing him to raise his cane in defense, jabbing it up quickly into the stomach of the first man, before using it to sweep the second off his feet with a quick strike to the hamstrings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little help here, son?” Rumple asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, you’ve got this,” Neal chuckled before blinking out of view. Rumple never knew where he went when he did that, but now really wasn’t the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he wasn’t going to be able to fight them. That left one other option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a man with a limp, he was on his feet surprisingly quick as he darted back out into the burning, hot parking lot, searching for the truck the keys in his fist belonged to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was uncalled for,” Rumple growled at his son as he scrambled through the parking lot, trying to match the symbol on the keys to the one on the front of the cars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal shrugged. “I thought you were okay with me leaving. Thought you wanted me to ‘have fun’!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be an ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, the experienced car thief might know where those came from,” Neal suggested as the men threw open the gas station door, rushing out to finish the fight they had started inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say you need me as much as I need you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bae, now is not the time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re getting closer, and they can’t kill me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. I don't need you as much as you need me, but I want you far more than you could ever want me. How is that, son? Good enough?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the Toyota,” Neal nodded toward the old, blue truck at the end of the lot, passing Rumple in a slow and steady walk to their new ride. Their new ride, that took them exactly twenty miles before red and blue lights began flashing behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you see the paper today?” Ray called out as he entered their home and tossed his keys into the bowl. “Page one, paragraph five, line two: When asked about the Southern Justice Coordinating Committee’s threat to demonstrate during President Kennedy’s upcoming visit to Dallas - White House Press Secretary responded by saying-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that?” Mary Margaret called from the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We made the papers, baby!” he called, holding it up proudly as he came into view, his grin meeting hers. “And here’s the best part-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled, cutting him off to finish his quote as she held up the three copies of the paper she had bought this morning. “I’m proud of you!”</span>
</p><p><span>People had of course talked when she had married Ray a year ago, but no more than they already whispered behind her back. As far as she was concerned they could all take their opinions and burn them. It was unheard of in this town  a white woman marrying a black man  </span>- this state, actually, they'd had to drive to New Mexico for their marriage license - but Mary Margaret was proud to be one of the few - she could not have asked for a husband with more passion and love in his heart. </p><p>
  <span>When she had arrived in Dallas with no memory of her past or proof of ever having existed, she had been an instant pariah because of her pregnancy. But Ray and the black women who had offered her friendship and work had welcomed her into their community, refusing to place shame on her and her little boy for their unfortunate circumstances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had begun attending his meetings by accident in the back of the salon where she worked, had started reading his pamphlets long after she had already fallen head over heels for him, and admired his founding principles of ‘honor and dignity’ above all else - though they were often principles she found herself having a hard time living up to. And when push came to shove, she was a smiling face they could put in front of the cops in the hopes of disarming their hostility. Then again, with her bastard child on her hip, Mary Margaret received a very different kind of hostility around this town. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she was glad that her son had a strong and loving father to look up to, one who was going to make a difference in this world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I just the luckiest man in Dallas?” he laughed, pulling her into a hug and planting a kiss on her cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grinned, knowing she was the lucky one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” he cheered, pulling away and moving over to the counter to dig through his backpack. “I almost forgot. I got a book for the little boy, where is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Upstairs taking a nap,” she smiled, turning to look over her shoulder and then gasping slightly as she caught sight of the leather-bound tome in Ray’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A copy of Snow White - the cover an intricate drawing of the princess in the arms of a charming prince, flowers strewn around their feet as they smiled lovingly at each other. She wasn’t sure why the book had startled her so much, but as she took it into her hands, the leather warming against her palms, her pulse calmed again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The princess reminded me of you,” Ray said with a loving smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll read it to David as soon as he wakes up,” Mary Margaret promises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knuckles connected solidly with David Nolan’s chin, causing blood to bloom from his lip like flowers, his whole stance being readjusted by the force of the blow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd cheered as he took two more hits, quick jabs to his stomach as he braced his abs against the blows, biding his time as he had been instructed to do. Fights that lasted longer paid better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to look at his boss in the stands, counting the money in tonight’s betting pool, waiting for the thumbs up he needed to end the fight that really hadn’t been fair to being with. David hadn’t even taken his shirt off like the other participant, having barley broken a sweat as the other man continued to exert himself and David just continued to absorb the blows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finish him!” he heard his boss instruct over the roar of the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David spit blood, turning back to his opponent and catching him with an uppercut to the jaw, another jab to the ribs, and a quick kick at the knee, sending him toppling backward against the railing. Well, that was no good, David needed him on the ground to end the fight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it didn’t take much effort for David to grab the man’s arm and twist, pulling him away from the wall, far enough for David to shove him with a knee to the back, scrambling through the air for purchase until he landed flat against the ground and the bell rang, proclaiming him the winner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there was the sound of a blade being pulled from a holster, and he looked back just in time to see the man raising a knife against him. There was a cracking of cartilage as David caught the man’s wrist, twisting it with raw strength as the knife flew free and the hand clutching it deformed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David really didn’t like doing that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a slippery slope, going from working security at his boss’s club, to the boxing matches that brought in pennies, to the pit fights out in the stables behind his boss’s manor. And though David could always tell himself that these men asked for this, that they lined up down the block for a chance to fight Prince Charming, he still knew there was a part of him that disliked this sort of senseless violence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes fell to his boss in the crowd, waving David’s cut of tonight’s winnings in front of him like a treat before a dog, and suddenly David was very happy that he couldn’t remember the part of him that disliked this senseless violence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily, are you smoking?” Emma chuckled as she stumbled into the kitchen in her bathrobe, intent on finding a midnight snack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily shook her head with a grin, letting out a small puff of fog before exploding in a cloud of giggles and cigarette smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you want one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t smoke,” Emma said, waving away the hazy air before leaning against the counter next to Lily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, how would you know?” Lily scoffed, and both women exchanged another round of giggles before Emma reached out, taking the cigarette out of her friend’s hand and taking a hard drag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The heat of it surprised her, burning at her throat as the smoke itself scratched at her lungs and forced itself back up in a coughing fit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope, not a smoker,” Lily confirmed, taking her cigarette back and continuing to gently suck at the filter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t your mother teach you better?” Emma teased as she began to rifle through the fridge, finding the leftover cake she had been looking for and digging in with her fingers, not bothering with the politeness of silverware in front of her friend that sometimes seemed to know her better than she knew herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily shrugged. “Didn’t have a mama. Showed up here one day, same as you, but about two decades younger. If it weren’t for Carl’s family I would have been left for dead on the side of the road. They’ve been real good to me, raised me like one of their own kin. And Carl. He’s a great father to Starla, a good man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he?” Emma asked with one eyebrow raised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s good enough,” Lily chuckled, reaching over and dragging her finger through the frosting of the cake before licking it clean. “Want to know a secret?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got an escape plan. A can of cash tucked away under the sink that Carl don’t know about. I’m not saying I’d ever use it. But one day… maybe… it helps me sleep better at night, knowing it’s there. It’s not just for running away; Carl could die. Or find someone better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Emma said, squeezing her friend’s hand, “There isn’t anyone better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian had spent so long with everyone treating him like he was crazy, that sometimes he doubted his own sanity. Here he was, in an insane asylum, and his entire plan we to stay here. For a woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today, the son of a woman he claimed to love had come to him, asking for help, and Killian had turned him away. And that felt a little too familiar for his comfort. It was too late for Milah’s boy. But Emma’s had come to him for help and Killian had waved him away with nothing but an apology.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wasn’t very heroic, now was it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And before this whole mess - with the asylum, and with Milah - Killian had been trying very hard to be more… hero-like. Hero adjacent, if you will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he knew he had to leave. Had to help Henry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he was just crazy enough to bring Milah with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Getting out of his own room wasn’t a problem, but getting her out of hers…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had taken apart the pen he’d pocketed earlier that day, using the sharp spring inside to pick at the lock on her door, popping it open quietly as he pressed inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked up at him from her bed with a saucy grin, “Killian, if I had known you were coming I would have tidied up a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came to...” he sighed. There was no easy way to propose an escape. “I wanted to ask…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I’d blow this joint with you? No thanks. But I do appreciate you stopping by to say goodbye. Ta-ta now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was almost enough to change his mind. But he couldn’t just leave Henry. So he waved goodbye, shutting her door lightly before turning back down the hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was only halfway to the stairs when the lights shut off, a scream behind him alerting him that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would a hero go back for whoever screamed? Or would a hero continue toward Henry in the hopes that the boy’s quest was more noble? Killian had such little experience being a hero the he really wasn’t sure. Fortunately, the decision was made for him as a guard rounded the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jones, what are you doing out of bed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before Killian could answer there was a loud, dull-sounding thud and the guard slumped forward to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re really bad at this escaping thing,” Milah said with a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mil- Cassidy, what are you doing here? I thought-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I changed my mind,” she said with a shrug, rifling through the guard’s pockets. “I didn’t really think you’d leave me behind, I was only joking. And you’re lucky I was!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sauntered over, leaning in for a kiss and he had to admit that between the flashing emergency lights and the intoxicatingly familiar, yet long-forgotten, smell of her were more than a little disorienting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Going to kiss me, Captain, or are we just wasting our time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really don’t remember?” he asked, leaning in to brush hair away from her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our time in Neverland? Fighting Peter Pan and the Lost Boys?” she scoffed. “Nope. Sorry. Drawing a blank.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he would have kissed her, in that moment, if the sound of high heels on tiled floors hadn’t startled them both out of their daze. Turning to sprint for the exit, her hand fitting perfectly in his as she dragged him along, she laughed like a child as he watched her, mesmerized by her movements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as they turned the corner they came face to face with the source of the footsteps - three beautifully dressed women, all looking mad enough to murder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello Killian,” crooned the first, her dark skin and blonde curls causing the emeralds around her throat to shine even brighter than the emergency lights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friend of yours?” Milah asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not quite,” he hissed, turning back around the corner as tentacles shot out toward them. He ducked into a darkened stairwell, the lights flashing red and lengthening the shadows as he gripped Milah’s hand and pulled her along, just as she had been doing for him only moments before. Just like old times, partners and equals in everything. It made his heart hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he could hear the creaking metal as the door at the top of the stairs was ripped from it’s hinges and tossed aside, the sounds of footsteps pounding down the stairs and the smell of magic wafting after them. So Maleficent had been able to bring her magic with her… now that was a problem…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian, who are those women?” Milah shouted as they ran.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well the one in green wants me dead. I'm assuming the other two are equally bad news,” he informed her, breathing heavy with exertion as they reached the last door between them and relative freedom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hands up!” called a cop, and Killian silently swore. With the three witches gaining on them, this was about to get messy if they didn’t move quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank God!” Miliah sighed. “Three women just tried to kill us. You have to help us!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said hands up!” the officer repeated, raising a gun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you have to listen,” Killian pleaded. “For once, we’re not the bad guys!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would seem Milah didn’t have the same patience. She brought her knee up into the cop’s stomach, twisting the gun from his hand as she pushed him backward to clear space for her and Killian to dart through as they made it out into the street just as the doorway filled with the three women pursuing them. Cruella’s cackle cruel as she tossed knives down at the fallen cop, Ursula and Maleficent scanning the street for their query. Only to find the street desolate and empty. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Missed Connections</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>David Nolan had earned his nickname, Prince Charming, because of the way he protected the women in Jack Ruby’s club. There were lots of patrons who got handsy with the dancers, men who harassed the waitresses, customers who couldn’t take a hint from the bartenders. David Nolan didn’t have the patience for that kind of behavior. He had started out as a simple security guard, but had quickly become the patron saint of the other employees in the mafia-run bar where he worked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s the idiot bothering Jack?” he asked, taking a drink from one of his favorite bartenders and slipping a tip in the empty jar on the bar in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some guy named Carl Page. He’s selling something that Jack ain’t buyin',” she drawled. “You’re gonna have to throw him out soon. That is if you feel like doing your job at all tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?” he chuckled, sipping at his drink and watching the man in front of his boss get more and more obliviously belligerent by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Prince Charming, you’re working the door and you let a kid in here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How had that happened? This was not the kind of bar for a kid. Okay, most bars weren’t the kind of bars for kids. But this one in particular. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he’s up by the stage. I asked him where his mother was and he told me he didn’t know, but asked if I saw her, could I tell her Henry was looking for her. Funny. Charming. And it’s not my job to throw him out so I let him stay. What are you going to do about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna suggest he find some more age-appropriate entertainment,” David growled, pushing his way to the front of the crowd and pulling up a chair at the table where the little boy, barley a teenager, was seated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know where you think you are,” David began, “But this isn’t it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be so sure,” the kid grinned. “It’s about time you showed up, David, I was beginning to worry that I was at the wrong bar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are,” David insisted. “So let’s get up and walk over to that door, real nice, and I’ll shake your hand and you’ll be on your way. Or, I can carry you kicking and screaming over my shoulder, like a sack of potatoes, and everyone in here can see what happens when you try to act older than your age.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long have you been here?” the kid asked, unperturbed, sipping at a glass of soda water in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All night,” David answered earnestly, “Not sure how you slipped by me but-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, in Dallas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A year. How did-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’ve got no memory of where you were before. How strange. Killian remembered. But you and Archie don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David was more than a little confused. He knew kids were weird, but this sort of took the cake. For a brief moment he wondered if he had known this kid - before he was… who he was… now. He heard a whistle from across the bar, Jack calling him over to evict the slobbering drunk at his table, and David knew better than to make his boss wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, kid, I have to go put the fear of God in that man over there, and when I get back, you need to be gone or I’ll evict you too. Okay? Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David! Wait!” the kid shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. “I need your help. I don’t know how to do whatever it is my mom wants me to do. I don’t know how to fix this, and if you turn me down I’m O for two. Please, you’re the last lead I had… I can’t find Emma without you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” David mumbled, “But I don’t know who that is. Now it’s time to go, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma started every day by scanning the newspapers for new missing person’s reports. One of these days, she hoped, she would see her face - even just her name - in that black and white print and know that there was someone out there who missed her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So far she hadn’t had any luck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is sitting at the table, three different newspapers spread out in front of her when Lily rushes into the room, fully dressed and made-up even though the sun hasn’t risen yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re up early,” Emma smiles over her mug of hot chocolate. “What’s the rush?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s Carl,” Lily sighs. “He’s drunk as a skunk down at some nightclub and needs a ride home. I hate when he does this. He thinks Starla doesn’t notice, that she can’t tell, but she can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, Lily burst into tears, quickly wiping them from her face to hide the emotions from Emma, smearing lightly at the mascara that had always looked a little out-of-place on a face that looked as if it preferred sunshine and a gentle breeze to the mascara and lipstick she piled on every morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Emma said, getting up to pat her friend’s back gently, “It’s okay. You’re right. Starla knows. And you should be here when she wakes up. Why don’t you get a head start on breakfast and I’ll head downtown to pick up Carl?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Lily mumbles, but she is already pressing the keys into Emma’s hands as she slips out of her coat and into a little white apron hanging by the kitchen door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I’m sure,” Emma answers anyway as she heads out the front door to borrow the Page family station wagon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t remember where she learned to drive a car, but at least that knowledge hadn’t been deleted, and it makes her wonder what else she knows that she is unaware of. It certainly isn’t how to cook, she and Lily had learned that her first week employed by the Pages. Maybe something more useful? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carl is slumped over on the sidewalk, one arm being gripped by a big blonde man when Emma parks the car along the curb and gets out to help pour her boss into the backseat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry if he caused any trouble,” she tells the bouncer. He just nods stoically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is Lily?” Carl asks from the back seat as Emma tries to shut the door on him, feeling frustration grow the longer she and the blonde bouncer try to fit a protesting Carl into the backseat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s at home,” Emma insists through gritted teeth. “She’s making breakfast for us now, as we speak, so we really should hurry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is the wrong thing to say, and she realizes it all too quickly as Carl’s hand clamps around her wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Us?” he asks, his voice angry now. “When did you become part of ‘us’ Emma? You think just cause you can’t remember your life, you can come here and take mine? Well, you can’t! I’m not gonna let you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s enough of that,” mumbles the bouncer, bringing his fist down on the top of Carl’s head, causing his grip to relax as he falls into the backseat of the car and Emma finally manages to shut the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Emma whispers to the bouncer, climbing into the driver’s seat of the car and offering the man a small wave as she drives off down the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait!” The bouncer calls after her. “Did he say your name was Emma? Ma’am, there’s a kid looking for you inside… oh, forget it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three beautifully dressed women are watching from an old Jaguar across the street when the cops interrupt the morning news program that Mary Margaret and her husband are watching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is making breakfast with little David on her hip while Ray stares intently at the screen, the smells of coffee and bacon filling their house with warmth and love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The banging on the front door is an affront to all of those things that they have worked so hard to fill their house with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get it,” Mary Margaret answers quickly, wiping her hands on her apron before scurrying to the front door, handing David to her husband as she passes and he clutches the baby protectively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has barley finished undoing the deadbolt before the door is kicked open and two armed officers burst into their home, brandishing guns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dallas police, hands in the air!” they shout as Ray curls protectively around the baby in his lap and Mary Margaret forces her hands up as she steps between the officers and her boys.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is little protection, though. She is tossed aside so hard that she stumbles onto the floor, bruising her palms in the process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raymond Chestnut, you are under arrest,” the first officer shouts as the other winds back for a punch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Ray begs calmly, “Just let me set the baby down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is gentle as he lowers David to the floor, the little boy wailing in fear and confusion right along with the morning news, still playing, but long forgotten, in the background. The cops are less gentle once the child is out of his hands - one of them landing a blow to him stomach as the other roughly forces cuffs around his wrists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Mary Margaret shouts, picking up a paperweight from the front table and brandishing it like a weapon. “He’s done nothing wrong!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s my charge?” Ray asks, remaining calm as the two people he loves the most panic around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Assault and battery,” the officer informs him as he is lifted by his cuffs, arms distorting at an impossible angle as he is dragged towards the front door. “You don’t remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly the memory comes flooding back to Mary Margaret. It had been at one of their meetings two days ago. A white man had interrupted, belittling and harassing the other members of their Social Justice Committee until Ray had politely asked him to leave. When that hadn’t worked, Mary Margaret had tried to reason with him as well. She had been less polite. She had smacked him, leaving a sharp, red welt across his check and a knot of a bruise where her wedding ring had collided with his cheek bone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was me,” she insisted as the officers dragged her husband past her and out the front door. “That was me! Arrest me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they weren’t listening. They all know this wasn’t really about the assault anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret, it’s going to be okay,” Ray assured her through gasping breaths. “Take care of David. I’m going to be okay!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lets out a stifled sob, feeling completely helpless, a strong urge rising up in her gut to punish the officers acting unjustly. And maybe in whatever life she had forgotten, she could have. But in this one she was powerless to do anything but pick up her son and sob into his hair as she watched them shove Ray into the back of a police car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she didn’t know, as an old Jaguar driven by a woman in white fur pulled away around the corner, is that the cops had actually interrupted a much worse tragedy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry had not slept well, having arrived back at Archie’s place well into the middle of the night, stashed away on a pull-out couch and feeling completely dejected about his inability to jog David’s memory or to open the envelope. Oh, and there was that little failure of Killian having not gone as planned either, but Henry didn't feel as bad about that one. He wasn’t quite sure how Killian was supposed to help him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Archie had made them each a bowl of cereal for breakfast, chattering on about aliens while Henry tried his best to politely tune him out and come up with another plan of action. He had to find the others, but what was he going to do, look them up in the phone book? Actually… that wasn’t a half bad idea…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just then a better one came along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The police scanner that Archie kept out to listen in for possible alien activity buzzed to life announcing an emergency at the Sanitarium where Killian was being kept. Two escaped. Considered armed and dangerous. Two dead on the scene. And While Henry wouldn’t put it past Killian to have done some killing in an escape, he also vividly remembered the three women who had killed his mother right before he’d fallen into the curse and Killian’s stubborn refusal to leave the asylum in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait… Two escaped? Who had the deranged pirate dragged with him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Archie. Another favor. Same thing. Don’t move. I’ve got somewhere to be!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friends of yours?” Archie asked, nodding toward the scanner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Step-father,” Henry corrected. “Kinda.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stolen car. Stolen clothes. I’m assuming stolen money… is there anything you haven’t stolen?” Henry asked as he opened the back door to the parked station wagon where Killian sat tapping nervously on the steering wheel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian hadn’t been sure that Henry would know to meet him here, outside the alley where he had first arrived, but it was the closest thing he could come up with as a rendezvous point, and the longer he waited - the more cops that passed - the more nervous he became.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mother,” Killian spat, turning around to face the boy in the back seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re ready to help me?” Henry asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m ready to give the whole hero thing another try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And who is your partner in crime?” Henry asked, looking out the window to where a tall brunette was flirting with the shop owner across the street, slipping small objects - mostly jewelry - into her pocket as they talked. Milah had grown bored waiting in the car - was letting off steam with a few of her old habits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her name is Milah and she’s coming with us. She’s an old friend of mine, and also your grandmother, so you could show a little respect. Oh, and she goes by Cassidy now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So she’s a Storybrooke resident?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not exactly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So then what is she doing here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you’re going to be <em>super</em> helpful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I can drive and see over the counter at most restaurants and shops,” Killian offered with a grimace. “So more helpful than you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry opened his mouth the say something smart back, but Milah had chosen that moment to reenter the car, opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat without acknowledging Henry at all she pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, offering one to Killian before lighting her own on the heated metal coil at the front of the car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally she turned around to take in Henry’s rumpled appearance and annoyed glare. “Who’s the kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Step-son,” Henry answered quickly, glaring back, causing Milah to turn and shoot Killian an inquisitive look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s… exaggerating,” Killian offered. “His mother and I had a very brief fling after the death of Ba- He’s an ex girlfriend’s kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She probably wouldn’t think that,” Henry corrected as Milah continued to take the two of them in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you said everyone here was losing their memories, so maybe she would,” Killian snapped back, reaching into the back seat to smack Henry only to have his hand swatted away just as quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh!” Milah shouted, ashing her cigarette out the window and twisting around in the passenger seat. “Both of you, stop acting like children and someone tell me what our damn plan is before I start to suspect I would have been better off in the nuthouse.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Story Book Pages</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Excuse me, officer, but I’m looking for my husband,” Mary Margaret said, trying to keep the hostility out of her voice. “He was arrested this morning. I was told I could visit him after booking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still being processed,” the officer grumbled, not even bothering to look at her. “You his lawyer? Only lawyers are allowed to speak with criminals during processing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not a criminal,” she insisted, shifting the weight of the toddler on her hip. “And no. I’m his wife. I think that might be a little more sacred than the bond between a lawyer and their client.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would think,” the officer shrugged, going back to his paperwork. “You’d be wrong half the time, though. Take a seat and I’ll let you know when you can go back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been two hours!” she insisted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it’s likely to be two more. Take a seat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Honor and dignity</em>,” she repeated to herself, finding comfort in Ray's familiar mantra.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officer was wrong. It was four more hours, David fussy as lunchtime approached, before an officer appeared from the back and let her know she could see her husband now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are few other people in the cells around him, two other black men who sit idly by in their cell, listening as Ray talks to them about the sit-in - other members of their Committee, detained without charges for the crime of wanting more from this world. The cell next to them contains a disgruntled and disheveled looking older gentleman that Mary Margaret thinks she recognizes from the news. A California cult leader - Father Dark One - or something like that. The men in his cell are gathered around him, babbling praise. Occasionally one gets too close and he mumbles, “Don’t touch me,” before brushing them away like flies. Mostly the cult leader just stares off into space and argues with someone who isn’t there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks away, disgusted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ray, baby, I’m going to get you out of here,” she insists as she runs over to the bars, wrapping her free hand around his as the other men in the cells gawk. She is used to the gawking at this point. “This is all my fault and I’m going to fix it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about that, Mary Margaret,” he insists, pressing a kiss against the back of her hand before continuing. “They were going to arrest me whether you slapped that man or not. We need to talk about the sit-in, in case I’m not out in time-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raymond, don’t say that,” she hisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know it’s true,” he repeats, his voice calming the panic in hers. “They’re afraid of us making noise while the president’s in town. The most important thing is that we don’t let this interfere with our plans. Let the others know-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s your time!” the officer insisted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I just got here!” she shouted, turning to yell at the officer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honor and dignity,” Ray reminds her with a whisper and she lets that quell her anger, turning to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as she passes, her eyes lock with the older gentleman in the other cell, his eyes lighting up in recognition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret Blanchard?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I don’t know you,” she insists, pressing her baby’s head into her shoulder to shield him from this deranged man who has thrown himself against the bars to get closer to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snow White?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pauses. Like the book Raymond had bought for her son.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must be mistaken.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid I’m not, dearie. Do you not remember me?” he asks and she can see twin daggers tattooed on his wrists. Something about the sight sends a shiver down her spine, a primal fear in her gut that she can’t explain but knows should be trusted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she whispers as she turns and exits the jail cell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are they?” Archie demands, his frying pan raised again as Henry enters the apartment with Killian and Milah in tow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friends, Archie,” Henry assures him, holding up his hands in a placating gesture hoping to calm the nervous man down before either of his more homicidal friends decided to do anything rash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re all over the news. They’re dangerous… are they… are they aliens, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aliens?” Milah asked with a raised eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had to tell him something,” Henry mumbles as the other two make their way fully into the apartment rifling through the junk mail by the front door and scattered across the kitchen table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you, or are you not, an enemy of the people?” Archie shouts, waving the frying pan frantically in the air, advancing on the four of them. “Aliens or not, are you here to hurt us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three in the doorway exchanged a glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Henry assured him as the other two mumbled under their breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s kind of a vague question,” Killian offered. “And enemy is a harsh word…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It really kind of depends on who you define as ‘us’,” Milah added.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Henry assured Archie and his friends alike. “No one is here to hurt anyone. The news is lying, Archie. And I’ll help you to see it, you just have to give me some time…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this?” Killian asked, holding up the envelope Regina had left in Henry’s pocket, turning it around in his hand. “It’s got our names on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Henry asked, rushing over. He hadn’t seen his name on it when he looked last night. Or any names for that matter. But as he snatched the envelope out of Killian’s hand the cuff at his wrist began to glow again, an unseeable force pushing the letter out of his hand and causing it to flutter back down onto the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well that’s weird,” Milah laughed, lifting herself up onto the counter and kicking her feet back and forth. “Open it Killy, see what’s inside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It burned Archie…” Henry mumbled as Killian picked it back up, putting it in his mouth long enough to tear open the side and spill the contents onto the table, eight pieces of brightly colored paper fluttering down like flower petals onto the wood grain of the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry recognized them at once. Each one was a picture from his story book back home. Each page glowed with a soft sort of magical fizzle, the ink used to paint pictures of the Storybook residents bright and cheerful, curling up to form calligraphy names at the top of the page. Eight pages, eight pictures, eight names. Henry leafed through them gently as the others approached.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian picked up the picture of Emma, sitting next to Henry in his castle back home, looking at it sadly while Henry counted again. He had assumed, counting himself and Archie, that there were only seven of them. Where was his mistake?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this you, kid?” Milah asked, picking up Henry’s page - he was smiling proudly out at the reader, Neal and Emma’s hands resting on his shoulder. It hurt a little to see his dad’s smile, after having just lost him. “And your parents?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry nodded, but before he could answer Archie let out a loud gasp, his hands locked around his own page, his eyes fixed on some spot in the distance, his mouth hanging open with fear and something akin to remembrance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you all right, mate?” Killian asked, setting down the picture of Emma to place a hand on Archie’s shoulder, looking at him curiously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Archie nodded and then swallowed. “I… I remember…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So that’s the key!” Henry shouted, shuffling through the papers again to find David’s and fold it into his pocket. “They have to touch their page. When they do, they get their memories back. Once everyone has their memories back, we’ll know what to do next!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will we?” Killian asked skeptically. “I mean I never lost my memories, and I haven’t the faintest how to get back to Storybrooke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you don’t,” Henry shrugged. “But the others will. Emma will!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know?” Killian scoffed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because my mom said she would!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you just ask your mom then,” Milah offered, picking up the phone book and flipping through the pages. “What’s her name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Regina Mills,” Archie answered, unaware of the tears now pouring out of Henry’s eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Killian noticed, clasping his hand on the boy's shoulder and lowering himself to one knee so that he could look Henry in the eye. This was a lot of weight to put on a child, even one as familiar with breaking curses as Henry was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s not going to be there,” Henry sniffled, turning away from Killain’s concerned gaze. “She didn’t… she didn’t… come with us…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Milah asked, spinning the phone book around and pointing. “Cause she’s in the book. Regina Mills. Might be worth having a chat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Starla liked being outside and it made Emma’s job as nanny so much more peaceful. The little girl could spend hours staring silently at the slowly turning weather-vane atop the Page family barn. She loved absentmindedly skipping stones across the lake near the edge of the cow pasture. And despite Carl’s insistence that the girl was too slow to do much thinking for herself, Starla loved puzzle games. Her favorite was hide and seek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She would tug insistently on Emma’s arm, making masking motions over her face to let her nanny know it was time for her favorite game. And Emma always obliged. Because she liked the thrill of hiding almost as much as she liked the startled look on Starla’s face when she found the little girl crammed into the most impossible of hiding spots, like a bloodhound with a fresh scent. Another remnant of a life she couldn’t remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lately Starla had been favoring hiding spots in the old, decrepit barn that sat next to the Page family home, and so as Emma finished counting to one hundred Mississippi she made a beeline straight for the rickety structure, digging through piles of hay and lifting lids off of the food storage bins that Starla would sometimes crawl inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to find you,” she called out in a sing-song voice, “Starla! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly she turned, creeping around the empty chicken coops Carl kept promising to refurbish, hoping to avoid splinters as she picked apart the mess looking to uncover the hidden child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Starla!” she called, pausing as the light in the barn shifted. It could have just been a passing cloud covering the sun, but she turned anyway to face the open barn door and see the looming shadow standing there - a man she didn’t recognize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” he breathed. “Last night, you said your name was Emma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded, slowly backing away from the deranged lunatic now standing in the way of her only exit, his eyes clouded with an emotion she couldn’t quite read. And she realized she did recognize him. That stranger from the bar last night, the bouncer who had helped her with Carl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why I’m here,” he offered. “I just felt like… I mean I know why… I don’t know… I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know me?” she asked tentatively. “Did we know each other… before…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “I wish I knew. I’ve been struggling with my own memories as of late. But when I saw you last night… when I heard your name… I felt… guilty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma’s eyes narrowed. That wasn’t a good sign.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just then, Starla chose to come out of hiding, darting out from behind one of the hay bales to cling to the edge of Emma’s flannel shirt, gripping it so tightly in her fist that Emma could tell the little girl was scared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Starla, sweetie, it’s okay. And you… sir… you should probably go now. My boss isn’t going to be too happy about a strange man meeting with me in the barn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I owe you an apology, Ms. Emma. I’m not sure what I’ve done, but I think I owe you an apology.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re about to owe us all an apology if you don’t get to your point,” Lily drawled, her voice matched by the sound of a shotgun being racked. “What are you doing in my barn?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both Emma and the mystery man turned to face Lily, now standing protectively in the doorway the man had just entered through, gun in hand and pointed right at the center of his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, reaching carefully into his back pocket and pulling out a leather wallet. “Mr. Page left this at the bar last night. It had your address in it. I’m just here to return it to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got a funny way of doin’ that,” Lily said, gun still unwavering in her hand. “Cause last I checked, that wasn’t Mr. Page you were talking to, and he doesn’t live out here in this barn, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he said, quickly extending the wallet to Lily, who finally lowered her gun long enough to take it. “And Emma, too. I can’t help but feel like at some point I’ve let you down. I’ve… abandoned you. And I’m sorry for that, if either one of us ever remembers it. Just know, if you ever need a favor, you’ve got one with me. David Nolan - you can find me working Jack Ruby’s club downtown. They call me Prince Charming. And you can cash that favor in any time you want. Okay, I’m leaving now. Sorry to have startled everyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that he gave a curt nod to both women, hurtling back out of the bar and to his car parked out in the gravel driveway. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Friends Forgotten and New</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Well, it’s obviously not her!” Henry argued. “I watched… She wouldn’t have done this again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No offense, but a giant, memory-wiping curse takes over the town, and you want to argue that your mom isn’t even a little behind it?” Killian asked, his voice lilting up into a skeptical question at the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s got a point,” Archie shrugged. “It’s worth looking into.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I agree to go talk to whoever is using my mom’s name in the phone book, will you guys agree to help me find the others when this is all done? The faster we round everyone up the faster we can break this curse and get back to our normal lives!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, we have a deal,” Killian said, extending his hand that Henry ignored. “We go talk things out with Regina. And if that doesn’t solve our problems, and that’s a big ‘if’ kid, then I’ll help you round up the rest of Team Charming for a family reunion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“YAY! An adventure!” Milah chirped, hopping off the counter and rubbing her hands together with glee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going,” Henry and Hook informed her quickly, in unison. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She began to pout and protest, causing Killian to grab her arm quickly and steer her towards one of the back bedrooms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a moment,” he said to the others, shutting the door behind them to give some measure of privacy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian, I don’t think we really have time for this,” she laughed, running her hand over his arm as he shook his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milah-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cassidy,” she corrected with a finger to his lips. And it was a rather persuasive point, but she was right, they didn’t have time for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cassidy,” he continued patiently, “You’re going to stay here with Archie. Regina is dangerous, and I can’t risk you getting hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost had to bite his tongue to keep from saying ‘again’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortunately Milah sobered, sinking back onto the bed as she looked up at him, her hands crossed in her lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian, let me come. If I sit here alone I’m going to think I’ve gone crazy. I mean this is the kind of stuff they locked me away for. Fairytales, Captain Hook, a curse cast by a wicked witch? I can’t just sit here and think about it or I’m going to go have myself committed again because obviously something’s wrong with my head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could say that again, but if anything it was her lack of fairy tale knowledge, not this new, small belief in it. She looked so sad, her voice laced with so much desperation, he almost wanted to abandon this fool's quest. This life - this past - it wasn’t so bad. He and Milah could run off, start the life they had always wanted back in the Enchanted Forest. Hell, they could take Henry with them, replace the little boy with the same lopsided grin and storm cloud eyes that everyone was still grieving. The boy Milah couldn’t remember and the one Hook wanted desperately to forget. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Henry would never go for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Cassidy, I can’t just let Henry go alone. And he will go alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is about the boy’s mother, isn’t it?” she barked, resentment building in her tone. “The pretty blonde from the picture?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course… that was what she had been seeing in that picture. Why she had asked about Henry’s parents. For a moment he had thought she had recognized the grown version of her own son, but that wasn’t it at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Love, are you jealous?” he laughed, watching her wipe at her eyes in frustration. “This isn’t about Emma. It’s about a little boy I need to protect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From his own mother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Especially from his own mother,” Killian nodded before turning to leave again. “And you’re not crazy, there’s nothing wrong with your head. You don’t have to understand what’s happening, but it is happening, and that’s what matters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Says Captain Hook,” she laughed with that lopsided grin her son had inherited. “Pinky swear everything is going to be fine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded, extending his pinky with a soft grin and wrapping it around hers as they held each other's gaze. She might not have remembered him, but the affection was still there. The love she had for him, dormant under years of… whatever she had been through. And he would always return to that love, like a ship in a storm, struggling to get back to the only woman he had ever truly felt anything for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A pirate always keeps his word,” he promised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple had always enjoyed having friends in high places. It was one of the perks of being The Dark One. His favorite perk, really, and it was one he had brought with him into this world. This time? Whatever it was they had been cursed with this go around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His cult - a brotherhood, really - was just another form of friends in high places. It was a group of people who devoted all their time and energy to helping him when he was in need. And of course he offered them little nuggets of wisdom and life advice in exchange, like any good cult leader would do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal had never really approved of the whole ordeal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it meant there was always someone to bail him out when his latest shenanigans got him in trouble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there was always a spare house... or mansion... or three... to live in when he was temporarily out of lodgings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there was always some spare pocket change for anything Rumple needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And since Neal’s existence seemed tied very much to Rumple’s, he was at least wise enough not to complain about these little benefits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, if you’re going to rob these people blind you might as well have the courtesy to smash a window and enter like a regular robber,” Neal scoffed as Rumple turned the key in the lock to the mansion that was legally gifted to him as a location to house his cult a few years back, before they had switched locations to California on a whim two years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a little too tired for your sass, right now, thank you,” Rumple mumbled, switching on a light to reveal furniture covered in sheets. And that god-awful, life-sized painting of him someone had hung in the entryway that was a tad generous on his good looks and had haunting eyes that seemed to follow you as you moved. Rumple had always hated that painting. Neal loved it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tough shit, pops, one of the benefits to being a ghost: Never too tired to give you sass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what you want, son, so I can make it happen and earn myself a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should have helped Snow back there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, what? I was the one behind bars. She didn’t need my help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal glared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, I’ll make a few phone calls in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal continued to glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now. I get it. I’ll make a few phone calls now. Are you happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma couldn’t remember if she had ever been much of a drinker, but tonight felt like the perfect time for one. She sat at the dining room table, a glass of whiskey in her hand, swirling the amber liquid inside the glass into little whirlpools that trapped her thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily had offered to join her after Starla and Carl were both tucked in for the night, but instead of being much help she just sat, watching Emma look lost in her drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where do you think he knew me from?” Emma finally whispered. “Do you think he’s the reason I can’t…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighed, setting her head down on her arms, feeling Lily’s hand rub gently at her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t know you. He’s from Jack Ruby’s club, and while I’ve got to say, you’ve got some rough edges, none rough enough to fit in with that crowd. You really think you knew a mafia man before… all this…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma chuckled. Maybe. She didn’t know. But looking at the man from the barn, she had felt a strong connection. Not one of guilt like he said he had felt… one of… family? He was about her age, and they shared the same light coloring and athletic build. Could he have been her brother?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s so frustrating. Knowing the answers are out there and I just can’t find them!” she finally raised her glass to her lips, taking a sip, and relaxing into the comforting sting at the back of her throat, like antiseptic being applied to a wound. “And he said he was sorry! For what? What did he do to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing you should go chasing,” Lily insisted, sincerity wrapping around the concern in her voice. “If he hurt you, Emma, he’s a bad man. And you deserve… you deserve better than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bold words coming from Lily. Carl was no gangster, but he wasn’t what Lily deserved either. And while Emma at least had the blessing of a blank slate to shield her from whatever this man had done, Lily had years of disappointment piled behind her feelings toward her husband. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what I deserve!” Emma said, raising her voice in frustration before remembering that she had to lower it again for those sleeping at the back of the house. “I know the doctor said to give it time, that amnesia doesn’t just go away in a day, but I just want to know who I was. And who I’ve lost. I have this terrible feeling I should be looking for someone, but I haven't the faintest who. And now you’ve got mobsters showing up at your house because of me. Scaring Starla. It’s… I don’t even have the words to describe it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you’ve forgotten them,” Lily joked with a soft smile before downing her drink and taking Emma's hands in hers, caressing her fingers lightly. “Is it wrong… that I don’t want you to remember? Because when you do, you’ll have another life to go back to? And I’ll just be here, same as I was before you arrived?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt a little wrong to Emma, knowing the sentiment behind the statement of a married woman, but it warmed her heart into a cautious grin all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s late,” she whispered. “We should be getting to bed before we wake Carl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later that night, for the first time since arriving in Dallas a month ago, she dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sees the man from the barn, a sword in his hand surrounded by black guards, a baby in his arms. She hears the clash of metal and the grunts of effort from the swordsman. And the man from the bar doesn’t look at all like a Texas gangster as the clanging of the metal turns to ringing in her ears. He looks like a prince. Like a warrior. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she wakes, she realizes she had witnessed it all through the eyes of the baby in his arms. That in her dream, it was her he was protecting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Needing answers, she sneaks from her bed and dresses quietly, taking the car keys from their spot by the door. It feels a little like stealing a car, a thought she is surprisingly comfortable with, as she shifts into drive with the headlights still off, intent on making it back to town to talk to the man who had called himself David Nolan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had said he owed her a favor. And she could use another person to help her search for answers.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Man or Monster</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The car creaks as it pulls into the driveway of the old mansion house and Hook kills the engine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as much as Henry hates to admit it, he does have to begrudgingly acknowledge - at least to himself - that it looks like the kind of house his mom would own. But he knows what he saw. He knows that she isn’t inside that house. It’s a fluke and all they are going to do is startle some random, old woman in the middle of the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because they had talked about their plan on the way over, and on the off-chance that Regina is inside this house, on the off-chance that she is behind this whole curse, Killian doesn’t want to give her a heads up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The unspoken words are there, and it frightens Henry a little bit. That if his mother is to blame, Killian means her harm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he has a whole family to think about, not just Regina, and so he can’t argue too much with Killian’s plan as he picks the lock to the front door, Killian leaning lazily against the frame as lookout. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You nervous?” Killian asked, watching as Henry fumbles with the paperclips he had bent and was now using to compress the tumblers in the lock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Henry lied, “Because I know she’s not going to be in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem awfully confident about that. Hey, Henry, if you need to talk about something-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need to talk. I just know she didn’t do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the guilt settled into his stomach because he didn’t know. In fact, when she had woken him in the middle of the night two days ago, what felt like - and literally was - fifty years ago - he had accused her of the very same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he had watched her die, trying to protect him. He at least owed her the benefit of the doubt, that she wasn’t behind all this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>You</em> seem awfully calm for a guy who is so certain he’s walking into his death,” Henry mumbled, changing the subject. “Because if my mom is in there, and you try sneaking up on her, she’s going to kill you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian chuckled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not if I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t!” Henry shouted, cutting off the end of the sentence he couldn’t bear to listen to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I watched her die. Okay? We were attacked by three witches, and I saw one of them slit her throat in front of me . She was trying to protect us from them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian stood dumbfounded for a moment, watching Henry work before he mumbled, “Was one of them… did she have tentacles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry nodded. “Not the one who killed my mom though. She just had knives and a crazy look in her eyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not sure this is as comforting as I want it to be, but maybe you’re right. Maybe your mom isn’t behind all this. Maybe the other three are. They attacked Milah and I when we left the hospital. Maybe your mom really was trying to help us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” Henry said looking up at him as the lock clicked open and reminding Killian so much of his obstinate father, “That wasn’t comforting at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Killian pushed the door open with the toe of his boot, a knife gripped in his remaining hand as both peered around the darkened entryway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You take the bottom floor, I’ll take the top,” Henry suggested in a loud whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid, I came here to protect you, I’m not leaving you alone,” Killian insisted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Henry corrected, the joking playfulness of his father from moments before now replaced by the icy determination of his mother written across his features. “You came here to kill my mom. So if you’re going to do that, it’ll have to be on the bottom floor. While I search the top.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he was sprinting up the stairs and wiping at his eyes, the flashlight in his hand disappearing into the darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry’s flashlight bounced across the long hallway at the top of the stairs, a string of closed doors spread out in front of him like a tunnel that only seemed to get smaller and darker as the hall continued. Henry tried each door handle, twisting it as he passed, and each one turned out to be locked. Occasionally a door would twist open and Henry would shine his flashlight beam inside, letting it drift across the empty corners of the rooms, nothing here but open space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once or twice he dared to venture into the room, trying the light switch, opening the closet - but the rooms remained dark and empty, nothing giving off even the slightest hint that someone might live here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully he continued down the hallway, almost finished with his search, when he heard a small crash coming from the room at the very end of the hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crouching low against the shadows, Henry followed the sound, pushing the door open with the toe of his shoe the same way he had watched Killian do when they had first arrived at this strange, empty house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this room wasn’t empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry swept his flashlight over the walls, unable to take in what he was seeing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a nursery. Like for a child. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was complete with a crib and changing table, a mobile filled with odd stuffed dolls hung above the bed spinning softly to a lullaby melody that made the hairs on the back of Henry’s arm stand at attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he had made sure there was no one in the room, he entered, rifling through toys and books alike, everything one needed to take care of a child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found a copy of children’s classics - Peter Pan, Wizard of Oz, Alice and Wonderland - laying open next to a plush rocking chair. The bookmark a piece of mail addressed to Regina Mills.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too startled and a little terrified to even bother with it, Henry shoved the mail into his pocket, setting the book down lightly and preparing to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he heard a noise coming from the crib. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t quite crying, more of a soft squeak, that drew him over to the ledge, his hands gripping the wooden protective bar as he pulled himself up to peek at the creature inside and was forced to stifle a startled gasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That most certainly was not a baby! And it did not look happy to see him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing Killian tried was the light switch in the living room. Unlike Henry, he had opted for a trusty blade in his free hand instead of a practical flashlight. Unfortunately, the lamp flickered and then shut off again, letting off small popping and crackling noises that were suspicious to say the least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian, as a pirate, had set his fair share of traps, and this was starting to feel like one as he crept around bland and generic furniture - things Regina would have never bought. The outside had been covered in her grandiose style, but the inside of this house, so far, was surprisingly barren. Which was a bit of a blessing, considering Killian now had to navigate it in the dark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped to look at the magazines scattered on a coffee table, a thin layer of dust coating the top. Odd, because the date was current.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picked it up, flipping through the pages, expecting glossy pictures. But it was blank. There was nothing but empty papers inside - a fake magazine for what Killian was now almost positive was a fake house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t good. He needed to grab Henry and get out before Ursula and her friends showed up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just as that thought hit him, he heard the sound of the back door rustling open, the sharp click of heeled footsteps retreating away from the house. Not panicked running, but a determined and purposeful stride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So they had caught someone here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Killian was inclined to follow. Hurrying to catch up, he darted through the kitchen, bumping into stools and tables as he rushed to close the distance with the shadowy figure now making her - it was definitely a her - way through the garden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a rush, he pushed open the back door, crashing into the starlit garden just as the figure escaped his line of sight through a maze of hedges, causing Killian to pick up his pace,crashing through flowers and bushes alike as he ran after the woman in the night.  But every time he caught up to her, she picked up her pace until they were both sprinting toward the garage at the other end of the property. Her, desperate to escape him - him, desperate to catch up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as Killian finally made it to the garage, he looked around and realized she had miraculously managed to evaded him. It was empty except for a few tools on a workbench by the front, the smell of gasoline and exhaust a little disorienting. Four pillars stood tall, creating an open wall across the middle of the garage, but still giving him a clear view of the empty space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had seen her come in here, he knew it, but now as he spun around in a slow circle, he couldn’t find her. Cautiously he made his way past the pillars and over to the workbench, hoping for some clue to where she had gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he got was a kick to the base of his spine, sending him sprawling onto the concrete floor, his knife clattering out of his hand as the cloaked woman approached him from behind one of those damn pillars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Killian was a fighter, and he wasn’t about to get his ass handed to him by the Evil Queen or anyone else who thought to sneak up on him from behind like that. Fighting dirty was <em>his</em> thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushed himself back to his feet, bringing his good hand up to guard his face as he swept out at her with a kick, trying to knock her off those ridiculously tall heels, but she dodged out of his way, forcing him to lose time readjusting his stance to her new angle and allowing her to land a punch straight to the stomach that he hadn’t managed to brace for in time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind rushed out of his lungs as he doubled up to protect his core, giving her time to move backward again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Recovering, he swung at her with right cross, causing her to try and duck away, losing her balance as he recovered his and brought his knee up into her hip. Stumbling harder, she wobbled on her heels. Jabbing again with his right hand, he aimed to topple her completely, but she caught him by the elbow, twisting his arm and almost pulling his shoulder from the socket as she knocked him sideways into the workbench - tools and other metal objects cluttering loudly to the floor below, making it even harder to gain purchase as he tried to stay upright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she stood and watched. She didn’t flee. Which meant she had other plans for him and that was even more unsettling. Watching her adjust the hood of her cloak around her face only upset him further - she had no right to be this calm and collected when he was panting like a dog and struggling for air. Lashing out with another kick he caught her in the knee and for a moment thought she would crumple, but she only winced, driving the sharp heel of her shoe down hard onto his boot and causing him to yowl in pain. Frantic, he abandoned all dignity as he reached for her shoulder, her hands rising to find his as the two of them grappled, throwing their weight against each other in the darkened garage, each trying to send the other tumbling first as they spun around the space, trying to avoid tripping over the spilled tools or being forced into a pillar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was another idea. Feigning a stumble, Hook bent low, picking up a crowbar that he had knocked loose in his initial stumble, swinging it forward with all his strength as she backed away, her posture seeming to shrink in fear until she was tripping over her own feet and then scrambling backward on the ground and away from him in a most undignified manner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough of this, Regina,” Hook growled, raising the crowbar high above his head as he advanced on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” she cooed, pulling off her hood as gorgeous red curls spilled out, piercing green eyes smiling up at him. “Wrong sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian felt a sharp pain in his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winced, dropping the crowbar and looking down at the source of the sting. His own knife sticking out of his flesh, blood pouring out of the wound at an alarming rate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hadn’t been backing up in fear. She had been moving to pick up his knife. She had stabbed him with his <em>own</em> damn knife. And as mad as Killian wanted to be, he was suddenly very focused o putting all his energy into standing upright, the edges of his vision tinting to black. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a battle he was not meant to win.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Killian, but this was just too easy. I hope your friends will be a little more of a challenge,” she said, leaning against a button on the wall as the garage door began to clatter upwards, slightly slower than Killian seemed to be falling downward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My friends?” he managed to gasp, thinking only of Milah and keeping her safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you didn’t really think I sent you all back in time to let you live out your happy little lives, did you? No, that would mess with the timeline too much. I plan to run Storybrooke just like my sister did and for that I need to keep things relatively similar here in the past.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So then why send us back at all? Why not just leave us in Storybrooke?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well that’s easy enough,” she grinned, leaning down to pull the knife out of his stomach and wipe it casually on the hem of her cloak. “You’re easier to kill when you’re confused and separate like this. Honestly, I wouldn’t have even sent you with the others if you weren’t so shiny and easy to trick. It’s the boy I’m worried about. You were supposed to bring him with you tonight. But I guess even Captain Hook has some common sense every now and again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she didn’t know Henry was here. Good. Best to keep it that way, he thought as his hands gripped at his stomach, now coated in thick, crimson blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His vision began to go hazy as she stepped out into the driveway, letting out a long, high pitched whistle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was the sound of shattering glass, a window from the second story bursting open, and she held out her arm amidst the shards falling like glitter around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if Killian wasn’t mistaken, if his brain wasn’t already too woozy from blood loss, he thought he saw a monkey with large wings like a bat flutter down from the second story, perching on her arm like a falcon as they disappeared into the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple had, despite certain annoyances that having a ghost son brought with it, learned that Neal was quite the asset to their grifter team very early on. Though Neal didn’t approve of his dad’s shenanigans, and made that very clear at every opportunity, he was often willing to help out with them when life or death was on the line. And when Rumple was involved, life and death were very often on the line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cult had started out as an accident. It had started with Rumple being kicked out of a restaurant because he couldn’t pay his bill. Literally, the manager had kicked him out, one foot in the center of his back, sending him sprawling across the sidewalk and into one particularly sweet - and wealthy - elderly woman. And charming as he might be, there were only so many ways to con a woman out of her money without magic. And though he had regained his son in this world, it seemed to be at the price of his magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he had convinced her of other things - told her he was telekinetic and could move objects with his mind. Begged Neal to help him prove it. Neal had responded by throwing things at his head - not ideal, but still helpful. Her friends had become interested in his powers, and of course, willing to donate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he’d told them he could commune with the dead - had Neal fake some messages on an ouija board. His son had mostly chosen to spell out swear words, but it had been enough that a few more followers had joined to hear the wisdom of Father Dark One and the dead he spoke to. And of course… donate to the cause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d spouted quotes from books not yet written and passed it off as wisdom, performed parlor tricks for pennies, and with the help of a very disgruntled Neal, once he even managed to levitate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re heavy,” Neal had complained after setting him back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s one of the downsides of being alive,” Rumple had shot back when no one was looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had made that trick work twice more before Neal had dropped him and they both decided it was probably for the best to give it a rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Overall, leading the cult for the last three years had been an amusing diversion - and a means to an end - but Rumple had grown bored with it after a while. Never forgetting his true reason for amassing enough wealth and powerful friends in this decade. Because unlike the others, he knew how this curse worked. And he knew that eventually, the other Storybrooke residents that Zelena considered a threat to her reign would come popping up across time. And when that time finally did come, he was going to be ready to find the only one who really mattered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t told Neal about that part of the plan yet. He had a sneaking suspicion his son wouldn’t approve.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Something Wicked This Way Comes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Emma had made it halfway to town when the car began to stutter and leak a strange sort of purple smoke she had never seen before and was only half sure a car was capable of making. And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, it just stopped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a groan, she threw open the driver’s side door, stepping around the car to gently lift the hood and cough as a cloud of the thick purple smoke enveloped her vision. It smelled like sulfur and was so hot it almost scalded her skin. And she quickly learned that car repair was not one of those hidden skills she was discovering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it looked like she was stuck out here, on the side of an old dirt road, in the middle of the night, and she hadn’t even told anyone where she was going. Just great.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Car trouble?” she heard a sweet voice carry, a blonde in a well tailored suit and a men’s hat sauntering to her from a Jaguar that was stopped with it’s hazards on only a few feet away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, thank God!” Emma explained. “Yes. And I have no cue how to fix it. Would you be able to give me a lift into town?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure thing,” the woman said, flashing Emma with a bright smile, her canines just a little too sharp. But she didn’t move back toward her parked car. Instead the two other women waiting in the car opened their doors and got out while the blonde continued to advance toward Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something wasn’t right here, and every instinct she had was screaming for her to run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she did, just as the blonde shot out her hand, traces of purple smoke flowing from her finger tips - the same hot, sulfur smoke that had stopped Emma’s car. And she had a sneaking suspicion it might do the same thing to her heart if she let it touch her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other two were running after her now, one with knives glinting in the moonlight, the other long snake-like limbs reaching out for her, almost like… octopus tentacles?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had to lose them, and out in the open like this there weren’t many options.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took a sharp left into the field of corn, pushing aside the thick and scratchy stalks as she tried to continue her frantic pace, but was inevitably slowed by the same plants she was using as cover. So escaping wasn’t going to work. Instead she had to hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could hear their footsteps approaching quickly, the result of the corn stalks giving them away. Probably giving her away too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So instead of following her instinct to run, she found a comfortable spot, a little out of the way, and crouched down, holding as still as possible - not even daring to breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the three women chasing her paused, as if listening for her the sound of her merely existing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They turned as one in her direction, Emma ducking just in time as a knife whizzed past her ear and she realized her only plan was to try and outrun them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrambling back to her feet she continued on into the corn filed, slowly growing worried at the footsteps behind her. Just the one set of footsteps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were circling her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too late, Emma realized, turning to run back and stumbling face to face with the red-lipped, gleaming smile of the one gripping knives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Emma begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without answer, the woman raised her knife, aimed, and tossed it straight at Emma’s throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in a panic, Emma pushed back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not with her hands. Not with her body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something strong and unbreakable inside her pushed back, a wall of shimmering white - a beautiful mist to combat the acridic smoke of the other woman chasing her - rippled out from her heart in a wave of energy so strong the other three women around her were pushed backward off their feet, flying through the air with undignified yelps. The knife that had been inches from her face moments before had distorted, bending itself into a harmless shape as it too flew backward with the burst of energy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without stopping to think about what the hell had just happened, without waiting for her three pursuers to regain their footing, Emma turned and ran back towards the road to town.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian awoke mid scream. He was pretty sure from the burning in his lungs that he had been carrying on like this for a while. The searing hot pain in his gut was a clear indicator of what had inspired all this yelling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Henry, he’s awake again,” He heard Milah call as his stomach twisted again in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coming!” he heard Henry shout from the other room, a soft rag with a sticky sweet smell falling over his nose and mouth and suddenly the pain wasn’t as insistent anymore. Suddenly being awake wasn’t as important. Everything went black again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He woke up some amount of time later, a weight on his chest which he quickly realized was Milah keeping him still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s happening?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saved your life,” she beamed proudly. “Henry too. Kid got you into the car and back here, all while you were protesting and screaming like a little girl. You’re lucky you’ve still got any blood in you. Now don’t move or you’ll bust it open again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, good, you’re not dead,” Henry said dryly, as he and Archie came back into the room, holding a cup of tea that Killian really hoped was for him. He was disappointed when Henry began to sip from the cup, throwing himself down into a chair and pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. Not a care in the world for any further conversation about Killian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to your neck?” Killian asked, catching a glimpse of a large white bandage taped to the side of Henry’s throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Monkey bite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Killian and Milah chimed as one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Monkey bit me. Don’t worry, Archie helped me clean it while you were saving the pirate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could try to sound a little happier that I didn’t die,” Killian protested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now let’s hope the same is true for the rest of my family,” Henry shot back, looking back down at the paper in his hand and then pausing, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, like a dog hearing a noise too high for people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the table next to him, his cup of tea began to ripple, the papers fluttering in a slight breeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that?” Milah asked as everything settled back to normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Magic,” Killian whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” Henry corrected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma never made it back to the road. Too afraid of what might happen, and what the women in the field might do to her, if they caught her again, too exhausted from the energy exerted creating whatever it was she had used to stop them, she found a spot amidst all the corn and collapsed into a heap, unable to move even if she had wanted to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” she heard a whisper, startling awake as she scurried away from the voice, corn leaves scraping at her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a little boy, leaning over her, his hands on his knees as he inspected her for harm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” she manages to whisper, eyes wide in fear. Had she dreamed last night? Was she sick - imagined it all? In need of a shrink more than a regular medical doctor?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m your son. Here,” he reaches out his hand, offering her a folded piece of paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says, shaking her head and backing further away from him. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No to the son, or no to the paper?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she continues to whisper as panic rises and swells in her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” the little boy says, tucking the paper back in his pocket. “You don’t have to take it. Can you come with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly she rises to her feet, stumbling after him back through the cornfield, trying to keep up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They enter a clearing, a large circle of completely flattened corn stalks. It is about the diameter of Lily’s entire house. Emma does not remember it being here last night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit, what happened here?” she whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did!” the boy smiles up at her, taking her hand as they continue through the field, stomping over flattened corn as if it is nothing. Emma hears her heartbeat reflected in their footsteps as his hand guides her back toward the road, toward her parked car, which is suddenly working again this morning. Mechanically, she climbs into the driver’s seat, following his directions to a little diner where she uses the last of her pocket change to buy them both breakfast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she finally blurts out as he fiddles with his pancakes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to take the paper now?” he asks, his eyes hopeful as he grins at her across that table. That grin - she loves that grin - and she isn’t quite sure why. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says shaking her head. “Anything written on that paper, you can tell me yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he sighs, dragging the word out into three syllables before launching into the speech he’s already recited once in the last two years.  “When you were a baby, your parents had to give you up to stop a terrible curse from happening. They put you through a magic portal that sent you here to our world, so that on your twenty-eighth birthday you could come to Storybrooke and break the curse. But along the way you met my dad, and I happened, which kinda put a wrench in everyone's plans, but only for a little while because he left and you gave me up and everybody moved on. But then, on your birthday, you did manage to come back to town and break the curse and everyone was happy for another little while, but then-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoa, kid, do I look crazy to you?” Emma laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I haven’t gotten to the crazy part yet,” Henry assures her. “We still have a couple more adventures for me to explain before we get to the part when you ended up here in 1963 without any memories. Peter Pan comes in at one point. And now apparently the Wicked Witch of the West. It really would be easier if you’d just take the paper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s cute,” she scoffs, picking up her mug of hot coco and taking a sip. “I’m sure your parents love you imagination-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do,” Henry cuts her off with a grin. “And dad… well, he did. Any more questions or can I finish my explanation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I get the abbreviated version?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Henry continued, “You can take the paper. It’s got all your memories trapped in it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it does.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both went back to picking at their breakfast. Finally, as the check arrives he looks up at her with big puppy dog eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, Emma, I kind of need you to believe me. I don’t know how to break this curse on my own, but you do. You’ve done it before. I need you to help me because we’re running out of time. There’s people here, you met them last night, trying to hunt us down and stop us from breaking this curse. If we don’t, people we love will die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry kid,” she frowns, “But you’ve got me confused with someone else. Now let’s get you back to your mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s then that an idea occurs to Henry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I live with my dad, actually. Can you drive me to see him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, let me just make a call real quick,” she says, sliding out of her seat and heading to the payphone at the back where she dials Lily’s number and hopes it connects. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily,” she breaths into the phone as her friend picks up. “Is everything alright, you sound upset? If it’s about the car-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not about the car,” Lily sobs into the other end of the phone, the pain in her voice breaking Emma’s heart. “Starla’s having one of her fits again. I’m flustered and you know how that makes her flustered. She bit me and she’s throwing her dolls, and… I just need you to come home, Emma. When are you coming home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soon,” Emma promises, and she means it. “I met this boy who claims he’s my son. I need to take him back to his dad and iron out a few things. But I’ll be home again real soon Lily, don’t worry.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Never Done Wrong</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Turns out, Rumple’s powerful and rich friends were not too keen on the idea of freeing a protester on the same day as a protest scheduled to ruffle more than a few political feathers. He made call after call, just trying to get some rest, and each time was told no, regardless of the incentives - blackmail - he offered up in exchange. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And after each failed attempt he would try to drift off back to sleep and Neal would begin to make loud ringing noises next to his ear, startling him awake to make just one more phone call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, after a night of no sleep, he decided it was time to roll up his sleeves and just do it himself, the way he always had - with good old-fashioned tricks and bargains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Neal were waiting outside the police station early that morning when it opened, just waiting to talk to the front desk clerk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Rumple could talk. But since the officer’s weren’t that interested in talking, well, Neal was persuasive in other ways. So Rumple waited outside, letting his son’s quick-thinking and flair for practical jokes take over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The officers inside pretended not to notice when the lights began to flicker, first the ones on the officer’s desk, then the over head ones, both finally blinking out completely, leaving the station in complete darkness. They pretended not to notice, but as the AC flared to life, filling the station with a chilling breeze, they all avoided eye contact, pretending not to be a little frightened about the strange circumstances. It was probably just a frayed wire or a power surge. Probably nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then things around their desks began to move, pencils rolling back and forth, paperweights hopping through the air. A stapler hovering midair for a moment and then hurtling toward the window, bouncing off the reinforced Plexiglas with a loud crash and exploding tiny, sharp staples all across the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was definitely not nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which was when the type writer began to move on it’s own. The keys compressing, the carriage sliding to create new lines as ink formed ominous words across the paper resting in it’s fingers. Each key slamming itself down as if whoever - or whatever - was trying to communicate was doing so with unbridled aggression and forewarning of the wrath that would come to settle on their shoulders were it's demands not met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The message read, simply enough, “Free Raymond Chestnut. Or... Die”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that really, really, wasn’t nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did it work?” Rumple asked as his son faded back out through the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ye of little faith,” Neal laughs, pointing toward the station doors just as they open to reveal Mary Margaret’s newly released husband.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You?” Ray asks, startled by the sight of Rumple lounging outside the jail. “You bailed me out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bail is such an ugly word,” Rumple says shaking his head. “I prefer to think of it as extending a favor to family. And you know how family works. I scratch your back today… you scratch mine tomorrow…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also, it was the right thing to do,” Neal adds, but Rumple waves him away quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Family?” Ray asks, “I suppose we are all family in the eyes of God, but-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Rumple corrects quickly. “We’re family. I hear you married Mary Margaret. Consider this a belated wedding gift. I’ll try not to be too hurt that I wasn’t invited.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you related to Mary Margaret?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple pauses as Neal howls with laughter behind him. He tries to think of a quick way to summarize his relationship with Snow White, but his mind comes up blank. He’s her step-mother’s ex-almost-stepfather- no that won’t work… her grandson’s paternal grandfather- no, equally problematic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was my daughter-in-law,” he lies, skipping a few generations in his explanation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re David’s grandfather.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple chuckles a little to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, thank you. I’ll be sure to tell her you said hello.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he grins happily, turning to walk away with Neal in tow. “Please make sure you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David could not get that woman out of his mind. He knew she was connected to the one thing he remembered from his past life: Snow. He would see her face as he jogged through town. Hear her name ringing just out of earshot. Emma was important, he knew that. But as much as he wanted to see her again, he was a little too afraid of what that woman with a shotgun would do if he went sniffing around again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s worse - he’s having dreams about her. Kind of. He’s having dreams about a woman, soft and pure like fresh fallen snow, handing him a child in fear. He is having dreams about holding that child to his breast while men attack him and he fights them off, until he can’t anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in his dreams, the child’s sparkling blue eyes always fade into the ones he saw on that farm, right before he wakes in a cold sweat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he can’t go back to Emma. And so he goes off the only other lead he has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He begins to sketch the other woman from his dreams, long black curls covering delicate shoulders. He draws the graceful slope of her neck, the round arc of her hazel eyes. She is beautiful on paper, and yet his sketch doesn’t benign to do her justice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brings it to his boss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you find someone for me?” he asks, hesitantly sliding the drawing in front of Mr. Ruby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The burly mobster chuckles, “My business is more along the lines of making sure people don’t get found, if you catch my drift.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David laughs, though there is no humor in this situation for him. He repeats his question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Mr. Ruby offers, picking up the sketch and examining it intently. “I’ll have someone look into it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” David mumbles, turning to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gonna be good for the fight tonight?” Mr. Ruby calls after him. “We’ve got a lot of money ridin’ on this one!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” David promises. “I’m good for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret takes a deep breath and braces herself for a visit she doesn’t want to make. She got the address to the overly large mansion from the front desk clerk at the county jail. Knows it is only polite to say 'thank you'. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And practical to look into the man who had taken too unhealthy an interest in her life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, to be safe, she left the baby at home with Ray.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rings the bell out front, waiting patiently for a moment before turning to walk back to the curb and flag down another taxi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, she won’t give up that easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, with another steadying breath, she turns and walks around the house, through a garden filled with rose bushes, to the backyard where she hears the constant whir of a water filter. In the center of a pool so crystal clear she can see her reflection in it, the older gentleman from the jail is laying on a pool float, sunglasses covering his eyes, feet dangling lazily in the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She coughs politely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me. I’m looking for a Rumple Gold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she has found him, she knows that already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lowers the sunglasses, sitting up to get a good look at her and she notices the red rose tattooed on his chest. The green of the stem curves to form cursive, obscured by the thorns, of a name she can’t quite read from here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret!” He exclaims, grinning like a shark, “I was hoping you’d stop by, dearie. Did your husband get home alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says, watching him steer his float over to the edge of the pool, climbing out and picking up a towel to wrap around his waist. “That’s why I’m here. I came to say thank you. You got him out in time to participate in the sit-in he had planned for today. I can’t imagine too many people were happy with you about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are more than welcome,” he says, that shark-toothed grin appearing again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have more questions, I know you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she did, but she was too afraid to ask them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning back cautiously she takes a seat in the nice wicker chair he has pulled out for her at a table next to the pool, the sound of it’s fountains still splashing loudly around them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem nervous, dearie. Don’t be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re part of a cult,” she states flatly. Perfectly good reason to be nervous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I prefer to think of it as an alternative spiritual lifestyle. Perception is all in the semantics, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still a cult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, you say to-may-toe, I say to-mah-toe. Is this really what you want to talk about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You told Ray you were my… Father-in-law?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, that was a touch of a lie. It would take too long to explain how we actually know each other. You and I have lived through many lifetimes together, most of them complicated and strange to say the least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you did know me… before… before I moved to Dallas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he says, motioning to a well-stocked bar beside the pool, two wine glasses floating over and sitting down gently on the table, a bottle of white wine joining them shortly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you do that?” she gasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Magic,” he grins as he pours the wine, his expression souring after a moment. “<em>Yes, yes, I know. And you won’t let me forget it, either. Quiet now, I’m talking to the living.</em> Sorry - dearie, where were we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret continues to stare, confused by the outburst and more than a little frightened of the well-renowned cult leader in front of her. “My family… did you know David’s father?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How cute, you’ve named him David,” the man chuckles, picking up his glass and sipping it cautiously. “Yes, I did know his father.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about him,” Mary Margaret blurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First,” he says, leaning in close enough that the necklace he wears clinks against the table, “I need a piece of information from you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world swims and David is pulled from sleep by the sweet voice standing by his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snow?” he asks in his first waking moments before he has time to realize how ridiculous that question is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the truth is equally ridiculous. It’s the blonde woman from the barn, the one that he promised a favor to. She’s here to collect awfully early.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma?” he says, sitting up and trying the name out for size. It is late into the afternoon and his nap before the evening fight has gone a little long. He struggles through the grogginess as he reaches for a glass of water and swallows hard. “Why… How… how did you get in my apartment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The door was unlocked,” She offers politely, nodding across the room. “Your son said it was okay to enter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have a…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trails off, seeing the kid from the club sitting on his couch and reading from one of David’s books, legs crossed, smile firmly in place. He’s a cute kid, if not a little too tenacious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t have a son?” Emma asks, looking back at the grinning boy, “Yeah, I figured that out when he told me you lived in a home for ‘solitary’ young men. If it’s any consolation, he’s claiming to be my son, too. But I can’t just leave him wandering in a cornfield like I found him-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I found you!” the boy corrects quickly, but she doesn’t pause for his interjection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-So I was hoping you’d at least recognize him and take him off my hands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope, sorry, just some kid,” David says, getting out of bed and heading over to the fridge to make a sandwich. “What story did he tell you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t want to know,” she laughs, following him into the kitchen and leaning against the counter as he works. “What did he tell you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much,” David sighs. “You two want a sandwich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, we’re not staying for lunch,” Emma cuts the little boy off quickly. “But when we first showed up, there was a messenger trying to deliver some mail. Thought you might want it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She holds two folded envelopes out to him, before turning and grabbing the boy's coat from where he had hung it by the door. “Come on kid, let’s leave this nice man alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy puts up surprisingly little protest, turning to grin at David as he is pushed out through the door. David can hear Emma scolding him for lying to her, even though the closed apartment door - these walls never have been very sound proof. As their voices disappear down the hall he can hear her say, “You’ve got one more chance to tell me where you live or I’m going back to the farm without you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David looks down at the envelopes in his hand, peeling the first one open while he brings his lunch over to the little dining room table, pausing mid bite of his sandwich as he reads the words scrawled on the back of his drawing of the woman from his dreams. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mary Margaret Blanachard - 75 Ellis Street</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a name and an address. She was real, and it was a place to start digging for his past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly, he sets it down, wiping his hands on his jeans before picking up the second envelope, this one with a return address - Dr. Hopper’s Psychiatry Office - and tears into it with new-found enthusiasm. But as his hands touch the paper inside he is hit with an overwhelming flash of emotions and memories. He’s in a carriage, stopped at the side of the road. He’s getting married to the woman from his dreams surrounded by a kingdom of love. He is holding a newborn baby in his arms as he fights for their lives against the Evil Queen's Black Guard. Henry. Storybrooke. Emma. Neverland. Snow’s pregnancy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He throws the paper down, toppling the table and his lunch to the floor as he runs to the window, throwing it open just in time to see Emma’s station wagon pull out of the parking lot, Henry beaming at him as he waves from the passenger seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As overwhelming as it was, both pieces of information suddenly meant things were looking up for David Nolan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But with so much on his mind that night, David loses the fight, and subsequently his job with Mr. Ruby.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. True Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Killian is having a hard time getting his rest with Milah and Archie bickering nonstop in the kitchen. His head is killing him, every time he tries to move the muscles in his stomach cry out in pain, and for some reason he can’t seem to find his clothes among the mess of bandages and bloody gauze all over the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s starving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But more importantly, he’s got a debt to settle with a certain green-eyed witch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t moving quickly, but he does manage to stand at an agonizingly slow pace, rooting around in the things on the floor to try and find something to wear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re hungry, Archie’s making something strange and disgusting in the kitchen,” Milah grins from the doorway, “but you should probably lay back down and let me bring it to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not hungry.” He was, but he didn’t have time for food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you could see how I was confused, since you appear to be going somewhere and I know unless it’s to shuffle yourself to the kitchen or the bathroom you’re definitely not fit to be going anywhere,” she chuckled, leaning against the doorway as she ran her fingers through her hair, her eyes roaming over him, leaving him feeling incredibly exposed and a little aroused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I’m going somewhere,” he protests, finally finding his shirt and groaning as his muscles strain with the effort of lifting it above his head. “That witch is still walking around breathing after she stabbed me with my own knife. I’ve got to correct that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah rolled her eyes, picking up the broomstick from by the door and poking him in the bandage on his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pain shot out like bolts of lightning, ripping through his body with a searing heat, the wound reopening and leaking blood onto the pristine white bandage. Her eyes meet his with a sly grin as she licks her lips and he remembers that she has always had a thing for blood. From bloody lips to skinned knees, Milah has always liked him best when he was broken and vulnerable. And suddenly he’s not so sure he wants to be going anywhere, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m sure she’ll be real afraid of the wounded lunatic, claiming to be Captain Hook while he can barley stand,” she laughs, pushing him backward onto the bed - and she doesn’t have to push hard, he’s practically falling before she even touches him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian,” she says, her voice going soft as she sets the broom back down and makes her way back over to where he lies curled up on the bed, “She almost killed you. Maybe you should take the day off from being a hero, and just rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in the moment he hears her son, mocking him “what’s it like to be the hero?” and tears well up in his eyes. He had failed Baelfire. And last night, he had almost failed Henry, too. She was right, he was no good to anyone injured like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves aside, making room for her as she sinks down next to him on the bed, propping herself up on her elbow as she runs fingers down his chest, watching him bite his lip in an attempt to not let a single tear out. She doesn’t remember anything - he certainly doesn’t want to be the one to explain to her that she had a son that he’d let die. Twice, actually. He’d practically killed him as a boy when he’d handed him over to The Lost Boys, and then… back in Storybrooke... If only he’d kept him in that hospital… if only he’d helped him search for a solution back in The Enchanted Forest… there were a lot of ‘if onlys’ he didn’t want to talk to Milah about right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not the hero in this story,” he mumbles, staring off into space as she shifts her weight on top of him, her fingers sliding up his chest to trace exposed collarbones, trail along the rough outline of his jaw as his muscles tighten beneath her touch. “I’ve been the villain so long I’ve forgotten what it even means to be a hero.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you’re the hero, Killian,” she whispers, brushing a lock of hair from his face, “You’re just a little rusty at it is all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he remembers a time when he would have agreed with her. When he had saved a desperate damsel from a failing marriage and brought her out to sea for the life of adventure she had always dreamed of. When his priority had been her, and her son, and their happiness. He thinks of Emma back in Neverland - realizes that his feelings for her and Henry had only been a shadow of what he had felt for Milah - a grim reminder of the love he had lost centuries ago. Of his fearless love and her brave boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, when Henry brought you back last night, I thought you were dying. You were feverish and delirious, and you kept calling me Milah, even when I corrected you. It reminded me, of a long time ago, when my son- he was bit by a snake. I had thought then that he was dead, too. I don’t want to lose you Killian. Like I lost my boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what drove you to the hospital?” he asks, pulling her tight against him as her gaze drifts off to a memory he can’t see. He wants to know more about what she remembers. What she<em> thinks</em> she remembers. This false life she’s created for herself here. He knows he should be suspicious, she wasn’t in Storybrooke like the others, she shouldn’t be here with them. But in that moment he just wants to here her gentle voice - that lovely accent - wrap around him like a comforting blanket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In a way,” she whispers, holding back emotion, because just like Killian she is too afraid to cry. “It’s when things got bad, that’s for sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifts his weight, pulling her underneath him as he brushes her hair away from her neck and buries his face in her curls, pressing kisses against her porcelain skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” he whispers, as they find a rhythm that their hearts still remember even after centuries apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t hate you,” she smiles back, and for a moment he can swear he sees genuine memory in her eyes as she leans into his kiss, biting at his lip as she bucks her hips against him and sends another shooting wave of pain through him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gentle,” he reminds her, placing a protective hand against the bandage on his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never,” she growls with a saucy grin, wiggling underneath him to pull her shirt off and toss it onto the floor next to the bed. “But if you’re going to be a baby about one little stab wound, I suppose I could be on top.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David buys a box of chocolate and a bouquet of flowers before hailing a taxi to go visit the address of one Mary Margaret Blanchard.  It's the last of his final paycheck - soon he'll be out of housing and food - but it is worth it if he gets to see her. He isn’t sure what to expect - knows she won’t remember him the way he remembers her - but he has to see her. Has to see their son.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wears his best shirt, working up the nerve to ring the bell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when the door opens, it isn’t Snow standing there, but a handsome black man holding a little blonde baby in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I help you?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m looking for Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret Blanchard? I must have the wrong address…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret <em>Chestnut</em> is my wife,” the man says, gripping the baby a little tighter in his arms, looking suspiciously at the box of chocolates and flowers gripped tightly in David’s hands. So tight that he is crushing them a little bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And David wants to be angry. But he remembers Katheryn and so he really doesn’t have a leg to stand on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s not sure how he ends up in their kitchen, eating chocolates out of the box, while Ray and the little boy that he is now positive is <em>his</em> little boy - watch him cautiously as if he is some sort of home invader. And in a way, he supposes that he is. To be polite he had offered chocolates to them too, but they hadn’t taken him up on the offer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how did you say you knew Mary Margaret again?” Ray asks, refusing to sit down as he leans protectively over the back of David jr.’s high chair, waiting for the answer he knows is coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m her husband,” David confesses. “<em>Was</em> her husband. We split up a couple years ago. I’m sorry, how long did you say the two of you have been married?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Almost a year now,” Ray says, his tone still distrusting, remembering the man who had bailed him out this morning claiming to have been her father-in-law. Two years and Mary Margaret had had no one in her life but Ray and the Social Justice Committee and her son. Now all of a sudden this new family came sniffing around, when their protests were starting to gain political traction and their marriage was starting to emerge from the rocky stages of newness every couple goes through… well it all felt just a little suspicious to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So are you from around here? Mary Margaret said she lived up north before moving to Dallas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not wanting to contradict anything she had told this man, David nodded agreement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not originally, no. But I was offered a job recently... well, I had a job... got a room at the Plano Street Rooming House for Solitary Men... but I can't afford that without the job... - listen, I’m not looking to intrude-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Solitary?” Ray cut him off. “Where is your father staying then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Father?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I seem to have already met him this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David shrugged. “Dad and I aren’t that close.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ray’s eyes narrowed in suspicion again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But David doesn't notice. His eyes fall on a framed picture behind the table, Mary Margaret in her wedding gown, Ray’s arms wrapped around her. Both of them are smiling extra wide as they gaze lovingly at each other. She looks just like the princess David knows her to be. And he can’t look away from that portrait of her lacy gown, flowers braided into her black curls which she has apparently been growing out over the past two years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t mean to rush you with whatever it is you’re going through,” Ray begins cautiously, breaking David’s gaze from the wedding portrait, “But I have somewhere I need to be. Can I take a message?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell her… Tell her that…” But David is struggling to find words as that image of his wife fills his field of vision - married to another man. “No, no message. Thank you for your time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quickly sweeps the remaining chocolates off the table, juggling the box as he slips back into his coat and out through the front door - no clue what he is supposed to do next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I want to know what we’re doing here?” Neal asks as Rumple’s car pulls into the local library parking lot - the address Mary Margaret had scratched onto a piece of paper for him warm in his hands. Turns out all the rich and powerful friends in the world were no match to the gossip at the local beauty salon when it came to finding someone who had proven quite impossible to locate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to check out a book or two,” Rumple mumbles, “Wait in the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was going to... until you said that,” Neal laughs, fading through the passenger side door to follow his dad out of the parking lot and into the cozy little library in which they appear to be the only patrons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The main room itself is small, the shelves labeled with neat, hand-written signs as Rumple roams through them, meandering about as if he isn’t sure why he’s here. Neal spots her first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So this is why we had to come back to Dallas,” he sighs, shooting a soft look at his dad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I help you?” she chirps, grinning eagerly up at Rumple, setting the armful of books she was holding gently down on the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal watches his dad swallow hard, thinking he’s never seen the man look so nervous. And Neal can’t blame him. She’s beautiful. She wears a high-necked green dress, pleated neatly down to her knees, white stockings to match the cuffs of her sleeves and  starched collar, shiny brown hair ironed flat and silky down past her shoulder blades. Leave it to Belle to make the fashions of any time period work in her favor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Rumple finally manages to choke out. “I’m looking for a book.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you’ve come to the right place, then,” she smiles up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad… she doesn’t remember you,” Neal reminded gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dad hushed him, causing a look of alarm to spread over Belle’s face. It was probably better if Neal didn’t speak when Rumple was as flustered as he was in this moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You alright, mister?” she asked, masking her discomfort with a giggle, taking a cautious step back toward the counter where she had set her pile of books.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Neal said at the same time Rumple said, “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m fine,” he continued, regaining his composure. “Books. That’s why I’m here. I need a book.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which book?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, dad, which book?” Neal prompted, knowing his dad wouldn’t recognize any of the ones from this world, much less this specific time period. He was being harsh, but he was more than a little frustrated that his dad hadn’t let him in on this plan. Because he would have been fine with this plan… his dad’s secrecy proving that there was more to it than met the eye. When was there not with Rumple?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any book,” Rumple spluttered before hearing how ridiculous that sounded and amending it. “No, sorry. I’m looking for a good book. What would you recommend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ve always been partial to Shakespeare myself,” she chuckled, reaching over to riffle through the pile of books she had been shelving and pulling one free. “Romeo and Juliet is always a classic. Two star-crossed lovers, trying to overcome decades of the odds being stacked against them, a love so perfect it always ends in tragedy. It’s a bit of a downer, but so beautiful you won’t care.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple nods, his throat dry as he steps forward, watching her check him out at the front counter, sliding a card into the pocket at the front of the book and stamping the date across it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It sounds… beautiful,” he mumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pick your jaw up before she thinks you're a creep,” Neal reminded him, sifting through the rest of the books and slipping a small paperback copy of On The Road into his dad’s coat pocket when she wasn’t looking. Being dead got boring sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled, turning back around and handing him the book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple fought the urge to reach out and brush back a lock of her hair, to pull her into a warm embrace across the counter, then grab her hand and never let go. Eventually. That was the<em> eventually</em> plan. But not right now. He couldn’t scare her away this early. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as her hand relinquished  the book, a flash of light caught his eye - a diamond ring on her left hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was enough to send him back out into the parking lot, gasping for air as he clutched the book to his chest. That hadn’t been part of the plan at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well that did not go well,” Neal whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold your tongue, Casper,” Rumple growled, climbing back into the car and glaring at his son. “And mind your business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your business is my business. It’s my only business, actually,” Neal interjected. “Why didn’t you tell me Belle was here, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I didn’t think it would interest you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit!” Neal shouted, bringing his hands down on the dash in frustration so hard the glove box popped open. “You didn’t tell me cause you’ve got some sort of scheme cooked up and you know I would try to stop you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answers?” Rumple sighed in frustration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what it is you're planning or I’m going to start singing and never stop. I’m going to hide all of your ties and put salt in your tea and… make life generally very mildly unpleasant for you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, I didn’t tell you because I have no intention of breaking this curse! Because the only way Belle and I can be happy and together is away from whatever current mess is going on in Storybrooke. My plan is to get her memories back and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit! Again! Double bullshit!” Neal shouted. “You know if she remembers she’ll want to go home. Your plan was to make her fall in love with you again and then whisk her off to somewhere where the others will never find her. It’s selfish, and it’s wrong, and you can’t do that to her!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like you wouldn’t if you had the chance!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Neal wasn’t so sure that was true. If he had a chance of being happy with Emma away from all that fairy tale drama, would he really be strong enough to turn it down? Another shot at the life they had missed out on, not once but twice, before? The temptation was enough to dig up a couple ounces of sympathy for his dad. It'd take a stronger man than than both to turn that down...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter anyway, because he was dead, which made all questions of romance and happy endings just a tad irrelevant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter,” Rumple sighed. “Because she’s engaged, and so my only chance now is to get her memories back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And,” Neal reminded him firmly, “Because Mary Margaret knows you're here and when she gets her memories back she’s coming for you, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, son, knowing me, which do you think is more likely motivation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t really matter though, cause right now Mary Margaret was his only key to getting Belle’s memories back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sirens wailed in the distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret - who was currently at a sit-in that was very likely to attract a lot of police attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah had always, unfortunately, been one of the bad girls. A nasty habit of hers from an early age, to find trouble where trouble was available. It was what had drawn her to Killian in the first place… the first time. This time had been different. She hadn’t so much as been drawn to Killian as she had been… pushed toward him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s beautiful, sleeping peacefully under the light of the moon drifting in through the spare bedroom window in Archie’s apartment. His dreams wipe away the worry that darkens his brow when he is awake, something soft about the shape he is curled into around her, as if he is some sort of white knight determined to protect her even in her sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is much less roguish this time around, more dashing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s a damn shame, because justifying hurting a pirate was a lot easier to do than this soft man she’d unexpectedly fallen for all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly she moves from the bed, dressing as quietly as she can to prevent waking him, opening and closing the bedroom door fast enough that it won’t creak, but slow enough that the light from the hall doesn’t suddenly blind her. She’ll be back by morning, and so she needs him to stay asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has to hitchhike across town, but seducing a man into giving her what she wants has never been a problem for Milah. Skipping out before delivering on her promises, also has never been a problem for Milah. She had considered taking the car she and Killian had stolen during their escape from the mental asylum, but was too worried that the noise might wake both Killian and Archie and so opted against it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t wait at the front desk of the hotel as she made her way up the stairs, long legs taking them two at a time, a purposeful stride taking her to the room she was looking for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re late,” comes a soft, feminine reprimand as she opens the door with the hotel key she had found under the mat at Archie’s place this morning right after Henry had left to find Emma and Killian had still been passed out in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I was occupied,” she grumbles, kicking off her boots and flopping down onto the plush hotel bed. “But I’m here, doing what you ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes you are,” answered the voice, wafting from the walk-in closet at the end of the hotel suite. “Order yourself some room service, I’m sure you’ve earned it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want room service,” Milah hisses, “I want what you promised me. I want to see my son.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soon, dear,” the voice continues, stepping out of the closet and smiling winningly at her henchwoman's undignified sprawl across the bed. “But I told you, you have to deliver the boy first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried,” she huffs. “I delivered him to you on a silver platter. It’s not my fault you stabbed the pirate instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zelena sighs as she sits down at the vanity, wrapping her silk bathrobe closer around her shoulders as she picks up a brush to drag through auburn curls. “I’m sorry, your ex is just so much more stabbable. I assume you didn’t let him die, did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Milah says, looking away because she knows Zelena can sense weakness in that answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Careful dear,” the witch cackles, “choosing that man over your son is what got you into this mess in the first place. When I dragged you from The Underworld, you promised me you wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not falling for Killian again,” she lies, thinking of the picture from the story book, of Henry and his family and the man who looked very familiar. She couldn’t quite place it though. “But if he’s dead, then I have no excuse to get close to the boy. Henry. I don’t think he likes me much. He barley tolerates Killian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We all barley tolerate Killian,” Zelena said with a roll of her eyes and then turning to smile primly at Milah, enjoying the way her words pull a blush from the older woman’s face. “When all this is over, should I kill him, or do you want the honors?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah sits up, her mind suddenly drawn somewhere else, “Speaking of killing, I ran into some trouble at the asylum. Three witches. They nearly killed us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because they were trying to,” Zelena chuckles, finishing brushing her hair and strolling over to sit down on the edge of the bed next to Milah. “I can’t have anyone suspecting your working for me. Then our heroes won’t trust you very much, now will they?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So they are working for you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes... sort of... in a way. Our interests are aligned. It's complicated."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah continues to glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It’s okay, if Maleficent and her crew wanted you dead, you’d be long gone by now, Milah. You just worry about bringing me the boy, and then you get to see <em>your boy</em> again. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you swear, he’s here? In Dallas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Zelena says, looking away, and the avoidance is enough to make Milah nervous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what’s to stop me from siding with the heroes? So far Henry seems to be doing a much better job of finding them than you are. He’s already got Charming and Emma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re free to try. But your boy is with his father. Do you really want to face The Dark One again without my help? You remember how that ended last time, don’t you?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Frog and The Scorpion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>TW: There is a protest that turns into a riot in this chapter. Just a heads up - I know particularly now that can be triggering.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>By the Time Rumple and Neal arrive, the peaceful sit-in has turned into something more akin to a riot. There is shouting in the streets, white men and women cheering “Get Out!” while being answered by a chorus of black men and women holding their focus as they continue to raise signs and chant “No More Back Door”. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But by the time Rumple and Neal pull their car into the mess, the loud chanting is the most civilized part. Police sirens wail as armed officers beat and drag the protesters from in front of the diner where the sit-in is being held. Their whistles shrill and piercing through the night as they separate loved ones, mothers from children, wives from husbands - the ones who don’t fight are loaded into the backs of the cops cars, the ones who do are forced into submission by rough hands and angry voices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is screaming, so much screaming, as men and women alike try to plead for their loved ones over the sound of police sirens and loud chanting - a cacophony of chaos that no one can make sense of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple turns to look at Neal, who is already out of the car - trying to help. Unfortunately, and frustratingly for him, he can’t touch anyone but his father, and so his attempts to pull abusers from their prey and resulting in shouts of frustration as his hands pass through them completely - once or twice he manages to knock clubs out of cops' hands, causing little more than moments of confusion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple opens the car door, taking in the violence around him the way an alcoholic might react to the smell of whiskey - his desire to get involved far stronger than Neal’s - but he’s had centuries to learn to control and quell that urge. Because without his magic, if he gets involved, all they are going to have is one dead old man and a fairly useless ghost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s when he sees them - screaming for each other through the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ray is being dragged toward two police cars by his arms as he yells her name. Mary Margaret is running after him, pushing cops and protesters alike aside to get to her husband.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa!” Neal shouts popping up at his side, “They’ve got tear gas!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sure enough Rumple sees canisters being removed from the police cars, knows they don’t have long before everyone in this crowd is in danger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, grabbing Mary Margaret’s wrist as she passes, and spinning her around to face him as she kicks and struggles to get out of his grasp, even after she sees who it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret, listen to me, we have to go,” he tries to tell her, but she is screaming and crying, and beyond consolable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not leaving him,” she insists. “I have to help him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their eyes fall across the road to where the cops have given up dragging her husband and have now thrown him to the ground, clubs in hand, making sick, soft thumping noises as they collide with his flesh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kicks out at Rumple's foot, causing him to flinch in pain, and then she is down the street, running towards her husband. And what happens next... well, it looks a lot like magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because as Mary Margaret reaches them she holds out her hands to her husband and the cop standing over him flies off his feet as if pushed back by someone a lot stronger and a lot bigger than the little woman in front of them. She turns to face the remaining cop, who has already started backing up, her eyes just as wide with shock as his. Fortunately, he doesn't risk any further display of this gift, instead he turns to run the other way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It <em>looks</em> a lot like magic to anyone who isn’t Rumple. Rumple, who can see the fourth person - the one who shoved the cop - who shouldn’t have been able to shove the cop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret drops to her knees, kissing at her husband, who only whispers, “What the hell did you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” she whispers, so much pain and truth shoved into those words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell did you do?” he repeats, his voice quivering in fear now as he shrinks away from her, a misty fog of chemicals filling the streets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s time to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As her husband stands and runs, Rumple wraps an arm around Mary Margaret’s waist, dragging and rushing her back to the car, her protesting severely diminished from his last attempt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns the keys and begins to drive away, hearing her whisper in complete shock and awe, “I didn’t touch him. I swear I didn’t touch him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with equal wonder from the back seat he hears Neal respond, “I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret is not a lot of fun to be around for the rest of the night. After relieving the babysitter and making sure David jr. is asleep in his crib upstairs, she spends all night dialing police stations and hospitals with equal ferocity, looking for the husband that never came home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple wants to tell her that he doesn’t blame the man, but Neal gently reminds him ten thousand times to be kind and so he waits patiently for her to finish with this concern before he can start pressing her for information about the others. Still, it is hard to be kind when the clock is ticking, and Rumple really needs to know where Henry is. Because Henry is Regina’s son, and he knows she wouldn’t have let this curse hit him without working in some kind of fail-safe for her child. The way he sees it, he has two options - find and kill Zelena, or find and manipulate his impressionable grandson. One feels slightly easier than the other. The other is, after all, impossible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometime after midnight, while Mary Margaret is still making calls and Neal is pacing the living room going on and on about how he can’t believe he managed to manifest - he’s never done that before - Rumple falls asleep, the two of them chattering just background noise in light of the very difficult week he has had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is by no means a long and peaceful sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is awoken to inconsolable sobbing and a few early rays of sunlight, seeing his son desperately try to comfort a woman who had no inkling of his presence. Sometimes Rumple wonder where he'd gotten that from, the urge o comfort those he barley knows. Neal is a caregiver and a bleeding heart, without a doubt, and it baffles Rumple because his mother certainly hadn't been caring and his father wasn't much for letting his own blood spill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything alright?” he glibs as he rubs at his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” she snaps back. “No it is not! My husband didn’t come home, only half the hospitals in town will even talk to me, the baby is going to wake up any minute now, and nothing is okay!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Rumple begins, Neal glaring at him to say something. “Nothing a cup of tea and a good breakfast can’t solve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both glare back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what happened last night,” she sobs again into her hands, “But you saw the way he looked at me. He was afraid, Mr. Gold, and I don’t even know why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple sighs. “If I tell you what happened will you stop crying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sniffles, looking up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks back and forth between her and his son before opening his palms skyward with a shrug. “Magic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You asshole,” Neal grumbles. “You never give me any of the credit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Magic?” Mary Margaret sniffles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A more skeptical woman might have had a few more questions. Rumple has always counted himself very lucky that ‘critical thinking’ was not one of the Charming family's many skills. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Magic,” he repeats, pointing to the coffee mugs hanging by the kitchen cabinets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Neal walks over and picks one up, carrying it over to Rumple as Mary Margaret’s eyes grow wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You… you saved his life… why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was a really good question. And there was no simple answer. Well there was, but it was: I didn’t - ghost boy did. So instead he gets off the couch and pulls out the chairs for the two of them at the dining room table pointing again at the tea kettle in the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Neal insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple points a little more insistently and Neal heads off to begin making a pot of tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever heard the fable of the Scorpion and the Frog?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shook her head, looking off into the kitchen with wonder as Neal pulled cabinets open and turned on faucets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s a good one. There’s a scorpion, who wants to get across the river. So he asks the frog for a lift. The frog says ‘no, sir, you’re going to sting me.’ But the scorpion insists he won’t. He says, ‘why would I do that? Then we’ll both drown.’ So the frog agrees, and they ride across the river. But about halfway there the frog feels this dreadful sting in the center of his back, and he turns to glare at the arachnid. He says, ‘what did you do that for? Now we’re both going to drown!’ and the scorpion says, ‘yes, but to sting is in my nature.’ The end.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She narrows her eyes as Neal enters again, setting two cups of tea in front of them with a chuckle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did hear that story, right, papa? Or do words just come out of your mouth without checking with your brain first? What the hell was the point of that story?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I understand,” Mary Margaret mumbles. “Am I the scorpion or the frog?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The frog dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s comforting,” Neal scoffs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re the scorpion?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… why did you save my husband again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I need a ride across the river.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She and Neal laugh at the same time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why would I help you after<em> that</em> story?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because that, my dear, is the frog’s nature.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both stare at each other for a while - him hopeful, she just a tad confused - until they are both startled out of the silence by a baby crying from upstairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, sorry, I can’t deal with any of this right now,” she finally says, standing up and heading over to the stairs. “I’ve got a husband to find and a son to comfort. No time for crazy cult leaders and their confusing fables. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple stares after her, annoyed. “I’m really not a morning person. If you could just wait until I’ve had some tea and a little food I promise I can come up with a much better story. Maybe one where we both live, I’m just a tad peckish-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear, but I’m going to get my son, and when I get back downstairs I want you and your magic gone.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Ever Been Hurt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Killian is making pancakes when Milah wakes up the next morning, and they smell so amazing her stomach growls in immediate desire. She had forgotten, for all his rough exterior, that the man was a fairly talented cook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She redresses quickly, smiling politely at Archie as she seats herself at the dining room table and flips through the story book pages Henry has left out, her eyes drifting back to the one of that man with stormy grey eyes and messy hair, a smile that cuts her deeply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So Henry says he’s your stepson,” she says as Killian puts a plate of pancakes in front of her. “Who are his real parents?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not my step son. He’s exaggerating,” Killian assures her, his eyes turning to page she is staring at. “His mother is a beautiful woman who gave me the time of day while she was in mourning, there’s nothing you need to worry about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And his father?” she asks, brow creasing as she looks closer at the page.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian looks as if someone has stabbed him… again... and in that moment she recognizes those eyes, that smile, on the paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A good man,” is the only answer he gives, but she doesn’t need more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baelfire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” Henry says, waking up from the couch with a stretch and startling Milah.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you get back?” she asks, watching him skeptically as he helps himself to a plate of pancakes and slams them down on the table across from her, reaching out and pulling the picture of his family away from her fingertips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“While you were out,” Henry snaps, and Milah tries her best not to blush as Killian shoots her a questioning look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how did things go with Emma?” Archie asks, eating a bowl of cereal instead of partaking in the pancakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, they went,” Henry begins, his voice falling into disappointment as he finishes his sentence, “And so did she. She wouldn’t take the paper, is actually quite happy working as a nanny on this farm out of town, and wanted very little to do with me after she caught me in a couple lies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So she’s got her magic back, Ursula and crew are after her, and she’s just content to play cowgirl?” Killian asks, finally sitting down to join them, pouring a cup of coffee for Milah and himself. That didn't sound like Emma, there had to be something more there. Something Henry had missed through the eyes of a desperate child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would appear that way,” Henry sighed. “At this point, I hate to say it, but we might be better off going after The Wicked Witch ourselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian laughs. “You mean the wounded pirate, the overgrown cricket, and the actual child?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Henry nods, continuing to eat his pancakes. “And Prince Charming. David will be by sometime today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Archie asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Henry shrugs. “But I hope so. In the meantime we can try and talk to The Witch. I found a piece of mail with an invitation on it back at the fake house. You know, while she was busy stabbing Killian? She’s going to be meeting someone at a party today. I think we should go!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re insane,” Archie mumbled, “And that’s my professional opinion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So Archie’s out, Killian?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright, I’ll go with you. Just to talk to her. No fighting, and if things get ugly, we get out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go too,” Milah adds. “Says it’s a gala and I could use an excuse to put on a nice dress and drink champagne with rich people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t actually invite you,” Henry says with a firm glare, and it upsets Milah that it took her this long to see Bae’s features in the boy. To see his stubborn obstinance and good intentions mirrored in the child in front of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But to everyone’s surprise, it is Killlain who came to her defense. “We could use her. Henry, I’m too hurt to protect you if things do go wrong. I think Milah should come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she said, caressing his arm on the table next to her while Henry made gagging noises into his pancakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not here for breakfast, are we?” Neal asks as Rumple peers in through the diner window, watching a young couple enjoy their meal together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father shushes him, waiting for the young man to get up from his seat before rushing inside and taking it himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal sighs, following slowly after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you’re the Romeo and Juliet guy,” Belle smiles as Rumple slides into the booth with a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rumple Gold,” he says extending his hand, far more put together this morning then he had been last night. “But you can call me whatever you want, dearie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your plan now, pops? Be so charming she leaves her fiance? When are you going to face that fact that the only way to get what you want is to help Emma and her family?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple ignores him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, are you liking the book so far?” she asks, much more cordial than could be expected of her; Neal has to give her credit there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, Belle, I’m not here about a book. I’ve got to be honest with you, and it’s important that you listen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” she smiles, sitting her fork down and folding her hands, furrowing her brow a little in serious contemplation. Neal would have asked how he knew her name, but she didn't seem bothered by it at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is going to sound a little crazy, but… I know you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we met yesterday at the library,” she nods, trying to make sense of what he is saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, dearie. Before that. Well, technically after. And also, somewhere else. Sorry, I really haven’t had much time to gather my thoughts these last couple of days. But I’ve been looking for you, for three years now. I know you can’t remember your life before you came here, but I’m a part of it. And I want to help you remember. You can’t marry that man. I know you’re starting to settle into this life, you’re starting to forget what a fighter and a scholar you were, settle into dreams of being a 60s house wife raising children and purchasing just the right vacuum, but that’s all part of the curse. That’s not who you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anger replaces confusion on her features, and though Neal isn’t the best with women he knows better than to have said any of that. He winces as she opens her mouth to yell at his father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me, but don’t presume to tell me who I am!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple opens his mouth to apologize but is cut off by a gruff voice behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you bothering my fiance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hello there,” Rumple smiles, “I’ll leave in a minute-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal winces again as the man grabs his father by his lapels and pulls him out of his seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’ll leave now, old timer,” he hisses, tossing Rumple toward the door. “Belle, do you know this clown?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, he came in for a book yesterday,” she mumbles, looking away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just need five minutes of your time, Belle,” Rumple begs, refusing to leave as the other man seats himself across the table, reaching for Belle’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she pulls it away, standing to face Rumple, her shoulders squared, her feet arched so that she is looking him in the eye with all of her furry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t deserve a second of my time. Don’t tell me that I can’t be a scholar AND a housewife. A fighter AND a mother. Don’t tell me you want to help me remember when I've made my peace that I’ve already forgotten that life. I like this one, and I’m not going to abandon it for some asshole who is stalking me after I lent him one book!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of her slap reverberates across the diner, all eyes turning to watch as Neal’s father clutches at his face, a lump forming from where her ring collided with his cheekbone and Neal is left to watch his broken-hearted father limp his way back out of the diner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mary Margaret hisses to herself as she passes the hair salon where she works with David on her hip, seeing the Social Justice Committee meeting inside. Without her. With her husband. Her husband who hasn't called. Who hasn’t come home. Who hasn’t spoken a word to her since the incident with the cop the night before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pushes her way into the shop, looking at the group of men and women who she has considered family for the last two years, and their voices fall silent with shame. Even David stops his toddler cooing, aware - even for an infant - that something is not right in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re having a meeting without me?” she hisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got a lot of nerve, showing up here,” one of the men who she has always thought of as a brother growls at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ray cuts him off, raising his hand for silence as he steps over to his wife. “Mary Margaret, calm down and let’s take this outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down!” she shouts, cradling her son's head to cover his ears. “Calm Down? You want<em> me</em> to calm down?! I’ve been up all night calling hospitals. You didn’t come home, Ray. What was I supposed to think? And now you’re here, having a meeting without me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raymond,” one of the woman Mary Margaret works with scolds. “You should have called your wife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s talk about this outside,” he insists again, pointing to the door before resting a hand gently on her shoulder to guide her through it. <em>Honor and dignity always</em>, Mary Margaret feels passion and panic rise up to replace those principles as she is guided gently out the door and the community - which has never once made her feel like an outsider - now watches her step outside with her husband and son.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, should we talk about what happened last night first, or would you rather talk about the husband who came to visit you yesterday with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” she spits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret, I’ve always trusted you. I’ve never questioned what happened to drive you to this town eight months pregnant and alone. I bought up the amnesia story because who cares if it was real, your past and your secrets belong to you. But there is nothing that matters more to me than this movement - we are doing good work here - important work - and I can’t have whatever connections you’ve been hiding from me jeopardizing that. So do you want to talk about what you did to that cop first or should we talk about your husband having ties to the mafia? Or your father-in-law running a cult?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what happened last night and I don’t know what husband you’re talking about,” she pleads. “Ray, you’re my husband.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “I can’t believe I never saw it before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Saw what?” she begs, tears pouring down her face as she bounces the baby to stop his own crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The timing of it all, Mary Margaret. How you just fell out of the sky, sweeping up hair in the very shop we held our meetings. How you wanted to join us in our work, a white woman, reading my pamphlets. How you can’t explain anything when people push you about your past. Please, God, offer me an explanation I can believe, because it’s all starting to look a little too suspicious. I wanted to believe the best in you Mary Margaret, but now I’m not so sure. Who sent you, who has you on the take? Is it Jack Ruby? The FBI? Dallas PD?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she bites her lip, because she can’t offer him an answer as he turns to walk back inside, closing the shop door before she could follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David Nolan packs the few things he owns into one big box, his eviction notice resting on top, which he hoists on his hip and takes to the only place he knows where he will still be welcome after Mr. Ruby exiled him for losing that fight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hopper Psychiatry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David! Henry said you’d come!” Archie exclaims as he opens the door, almost knocking the box out of David’s arms as he embraces him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Archie,” he sighs, happy to be recognized. “It’s good to see you. Is Henry here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he and Killain went out. They’ll be back later. Come in, come in, don’t just stand there in the doorway!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian? What's he been up to?” David asks as he sets his things down on the dining room table. There are other pages scattered across the table, just like the one Henry had delivered to him. And an idea occurs to David. Hoping Archie doesn’t noticed, he slides the one labeled Snow White off the table, gently folding it into his pocket while Archie busies himself pouring drinks for the two of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was in an asylum. He escaped. Brought some woman named Cassidy - Killian calls her Milah - with him,” Archie explained, turning around just as David had finished tucking the page away in his pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did they say when they would be back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Archie says with a shrug. “But they left me here to wait for you. Now we can wait for the two of them together!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a great idea, really, it is,” David tries to assure him. “But could I use your phone first. I’d like to meet an old friend for lunch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Archie says, pointing to the counter, “The phone book is right over there.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. See You In Hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Killian, Milah, and Henry crouch behind the cars in the parking lot, watching a party commence that is much bigger than they could have ever expected.</p><p>Which is a pro, because it makes it a lot harder for spontaneous violence to erupt.</p><p>And is a con, because it makes it much harder for them to not be spotted.</p><p>Killian and Milah, for their part, had gone shopping - though Henry doubted they’d paid for anything - and were now dressed to fit in at least. Henry, who knows there is no disguising a child at a fancy dress party, hadn’t bothered. </p><p>Their plan is simple: get in, find The Wicked Witch, and try to talk some sense into her. At the very least, get more information than they had. They left Archie at the apartment to wait for David, who Henry is still adamant is going to show up today. Milah is skeptical of this plan, but so far Henry has a pretty good track record of talking villains out of dastardly deeds, so Killian is at least willing to give it a shot. But he’s got two knives holstered to his forearms, just in case it doesn’t go the way Henry has planned. He’s not getting stabbed again.</p><p>Killian stands and melts into the crowd first, leaving the other two still partially hidden. Milah turns to follow, but Henry grabs her wrist, glaring up at her.</p><p>“Cut the crap. The dimwitted pirate might be buying this story, but I’m not. You’re not from Storybrooke, you shouldn’t be here, and you’re still pretending to not remember for some reason.”</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she smiles politely.</p><p>“I saw you sneak out last night. And back in early this morning. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I know it’s not good.”</p><p>“You’re just like your father,” she mumbles to herself as Henry runs on ahead into the crowd, leaving her to catch up. </p><p>*</p><p>The inside of the party is tacky and gaudy. It smells of new money as women in costume jewelry dance underneath faux crystal chandeliers, sipping champagne out of long-stemmed glasses. The music is loud, but the guests are louder, and so the three interlopers start to relax. Everyone is too caught up in the splendor of the event to notice that there are three uninvited guests.</p><p>Milah is the first to take a glass of champagne from a waiter in a white coat, grinning as she catches up to Killian. Henry reaches for his own glass, but the pirate smacks his hand away with a warning look.</p><p>“Since when do you care if I drink?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.</p><p>“Your mother would.”</p><p>Henry turns his glare to Milah, sipping smugly at her own drink. “Since when do you care about my mother?” he mumbles.</p><p>But before Killian can open his mouth to say, ‘listen here, you little shit’, a flash f red curls passes in the crowd and Henry is off following it up the stairs.</p><p>“Should we go with him?” Milah asks, concerned.</p><p>“No, that wasn’t The Witch,” Killian corrects, “Too tall.”</p><p>“Well then we should split up, I can take the upstairs with the boy, you take the downstairs and try not to get stabbed again.”</p><p>Killian shakes his head ruefully, wrapping his fingers gently around her wrist to prevent her from wandering. “Are you trying to ditch me again, love?”</p><p>She feigns confusion.</p><p>“Last night? Henry wasn’t the only one who noticed you slip away. I’m a light sleeper.”</p><p>Her eyes drift to the stairs again and the little boy - her grandson - disappearing out of view.</p><p>“Hey,” Killian says, tapping fingertips lightly to the underside of her chin, so soft it is almost a caress, as he turns her gaze back to him. “Where’d you go?”</p><p>“Is now the best time?”</p><p>“There may never be another, the way we live, my dear.”</p><p>“Fine, I went to the pharmacy to buy gauze for your disgusting stab wound. You’re welcome for that. And for what happened before it, too, by the way. Don’t start trying to tell me when I can and can’t leave your bedroom, <em>Captain</em>, or this is never going to work out. Now, dance with me, like we’re young and at a party, and not two lunatics on sabbatical from the nuthouse,” she laughs, grabbing him by his tie and dragging him through the crowd like a dog on a leash. And all thoughts of mistrusting her fade from Killian’s mind like mist evaporating under the morning sun. She is beautiful, and bold, and he has missed her more than even he had realized.</p><p>She hooks one arm around his waist, tangling her fingers in his as they sway to the music, so close he can smell the salt and lilac that has always been her scent. And it takes him back centuries, to when they would dance on tavern tables and across the boards of his ship like everyone was watching. She had always been an amazing dancer.</p><p>And so as their feet move in unison, as she spins away only to return pressed against him closer then ever, he lets his hands roam to more intimate places, feeling the curve of her hip, the arch of her back, wishing for a moment - a tiny, brief moment - that he wasn’t trying to be the hero. That he could take his woman and run, say to hell with the boy and his family, and never look back. The old Captain Hook would have. </p><p>“You’re a good dancer, <em>Captain Hook</em>,” she teases, “But can you follow?”</p><p>And quickly she takes the lead, guiding him with her hand in the small of his back, and for a moment he is confused, stumbles over the change in control. </p><p>But only for a moment. Because he has always followed Milah’s lead. She has always been the one wild will stronger than his, and apparently that hasn’t changed after centuries apart. And so eventually he gives in to letting her spin him, the caress of her hands exploring the spaces he just had, as her fingertips trace his jaw, turning his head back over his shoulder to face her, laughing as she presses a gentle kiss to his lips and then shoves him away from her again. </p><p>His Milah: playful, and obstinate, and strong. He would never want her any other way.</p><p>He pulls her close, taking back the lead as the two of them collapse in a fit of giggles on the dancefloor, the memories of the old days making them forget that they are not alone.</p><p>So much for going unnoticed.</p><p>But suddenly, Milah is holding very still as her gaze drifts off through a doorway. There is a man there, framed in the light of the windowpane, hair so red that the sunlight makes it look as if it is on fire. </p><p>Her body is rigid now, immovable with what Killian thinks might be fear as she swallows hard and pulls away from him.</p><p>“Someone more handsome than me?” he asks, trying to sound light and joking, instead of slightly offended.</p><p>“It can’t be,” she whispers, her eyes never leaving the well-dressed man, laughing with others as he holds his own champagne glass, sparkling with bubbles. </p><p>Her hands fall away from Killian’s as she drifts off the dancefloor, as if the man is a magnet, and Killian knows better than to follow her.</p><p>*</p><p>As Milah approaches, the rest of the crowd scatters, leaving her and the tall stranger alone in the ray of light, a spotlight in which to air their grievances. </p><p>“Hades,” she says, tilting her chin in a nod hello as she grabs another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downs half of it in one gulp.</p><p>“Little lost soul,” he answers back, his eyes looking out to the crowd as if she has already bored him. “Enjoying the land of the living?”</p><p>“What are you doing here?”</p><p>He makes a tisking noise, taking a gentle sip from his glass, his right hand still casually in his pocket as he continued to feign a lack of interest. “Your flirting skills leave something to be desired. It’s a wonder that pirate is falling for them at all.”</p><p>“What are you doing here?” she repeats, her tone icy as ever.</p><p>“I’m Zelena’s date,” he grins. “And I’m keeping an eye on my borrowed property. Zelena can’t just go taking souls from me left and right and think I’m not going to check in on them.”</p><p>Them? As far as Milah knew she was the only soul Zelena had borrowed. </p><p>“Oh, you thought you were the only one?” he grins smugly. </p><p>“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “I’m only here to see my son. To apologize to him. I couldn’t care less about the other souls. Once I’ve made my peace with my boy I’m headed right back to The Underworld.”</p><p>“Not if you’ve cleared up your unfinished business,” Hades reminded her. “But it doesn’t matter. Not that I doubt Zelena intends to bring you to your son, but I do suspect it won’t be the reunion you’ve envisioned. I’ll see you in hell, dear.”</p><p>“See you in hell,” Milah mumbles as she watches him melt off into the crowd, leaving her alone under the window feeling for the first time incredibly vulnerable and exposed in this whole scheme.</p><p>*</p><p>In the kitchen, three women in waiter's uniforms lift trays of appetizers to carry out into the crowd. They are unaware that the boy their boss wants most is upstairs, snooping through closets and generally just sitting out in the open like easy pray while his guardians dance and flirt in the midst of the roaring party going on downstairs.</p><p>Henry, unaware of just how much danger he’s actually put himself in, presses open doors looking for the women in green.</p><p>But each room he enters, he gets further away from Milah and Killian, and closer and closer to the triple threat now ascending the stairs on their master’s orders. It is as he is leaving his third empty room that he stumbles into the one Killian has been calling Ursula, grinning up at him.</p><p>“Any chance you just want to talk?” he asks, his sentence trailing off in pitch as she reaches out for him with her tentacles and he is forced to scramble out into the hall and in the direction of the stairs as fast as he can. The slimy appendages are around him faster than he can run, though, and soon he is being picked up and slammed against the wall so hard it knocks any thought other than survival right out of his head. As the tentacles turn to swing him against the opposite wall, he kicks out behind him, feeling his foot connect solidly with Ursula’s kneecap as she stumbles and her grip loosens. With all his strength Henry turns, grabbing onto her shoulders as he slips an arm around her throat, hoping that all the Pro Wrestling he used to watch when Regina wasn’t home would finally pay off.</p><p>But the woman is just mildly annoyed by his attempt to choke her, flailing tentacles now regaining purpose as she tries to pry him from her back. Throwing him forward with all her weight, she pulls a fist back, aiming at the center of his face, but he manages to roll away in time, hearing her yelp as her knuckles crack against the floorboards.</p><p>It is hard to say if it is her yelp, or his, as her second punch collides with his nose. That alerts the guardians downstairs to the terrible job they’ve both been doing.</p><p>Killian is up the stairs first, the pain in his stomach not slowing him for one second, as he runs toward the boy he had promised to protect; the sound of fighting lighting a paternal instinct he hadn’t known he had.</p><p>But he is barley to the landing at the top of the stairs when he feels something strong and rough wrap around his throat, dragging him down the opposite end of the hallway, the wound in his stomach making it difficult to twist out of Cruella’s grasp. She drags him far enough away that Henry is just at the edge of his sight when Maleficent steps out of an open doorway with a malicious grin on her face.</p><p>She is wearing brass knuckles, embedded with diamonds that are the only hint she might not really be the waiter she is dressed like, that send waves of sparkling pain down Killain’s spine as her fists connect with his wound, bursting open and bleeding freely though the suit he is wearing. Two against one, it isn’t close to a fair fight as Cruella’s noose continues to tighten, and Maleficent's blows don’t cease. He manages to get one of his knives free from it’s holster around his forearm, sliding forward into his palm and slashing out at Maleficent.</p><p>She grabs his wrist, twisting it backwards until the metal clatters to the floor, but has at least stopped hitting him long enough that he can throw his weight backward against Cruella and loosen the noose for a moment, gasping in oxygen and taking a second to think.</p><p>A second to see Milah arrive at the top of the stairs between the two of them, looking right to Henry and then left to Killian.</p><p>And then making up her mind.</p><p>Because she’s been in this situation before. Looking left to a lover, and right to her family. And she chose wrong last time. That’s what got her in this mess to begin with. She has chosen Killian over Baelfire before, and she won’t do it again.</p><p>“Milah, help me!” Killian pleads as Cruella steadies him again and Maleficent prepares for another punch.</p><p>She turns right, kicking off her heels as she runs towards Ursula and the boy. That’s her grandson, and she is going to protect him at all costs. As she passes the spot where Killian’s knife had clattered to the floor, she picks it up and grips it in her fist. </p><p>The sea witch doesn’t see her coming until it is too late and Milah has her by the throat, pulling her off Henry with the strength of ten men. She wraps her legs tightly around Ursula’s waist, wrestling her to her knees as Milah uses her free arm to slash into the tentacles now desperately trying to remove the threat. </p><p>Henry pauses to stare wide-eyed as he is free to run, shocked at Milah’s strength as she throws her own weight backward, pulling the Sea Witch on top of her and pressing the knife to the woman’s throat. No longer that damsel in distress from the insane asylum she has been pretending to be, but the Pirate Queen she had traded her son to become. </p><p>“You’re welcome. Now Run!” She yells at Henry as the knife is knocked out of her hand and Ursula rolls to grip at Milah’s throat, both women grappling for their lives.</p><p>But Henry doesn’t run. At least not away. He runs forward, grabbing the Sea Witch off his grandmother and dragging her with all his strength toward the window. She teeters there, surprised for a moment before Henry gives a small shove and she is crashing through the glass, tentacles barley catching her to break her fall as she hits the ground below.</p><p>But more importantly, as Henry is watching to make sure she doesn’t get up too quickly - and also a little to make sure he hasn't just committed his first murder - he sees another flash of red hair, this time Zelena turns to smile and wave at him, before darting off into the night.</p><p>“No! Wait!” Henry screams, turning to run down the stairs after her.</p><p>“You’ve got this,” Milah whispers to Killian, who is now boiling with rage, as she picks up her shoes and chases after the little boy on his flight down the stairs. She can’t let him out of her sight, not when he is running directly toward the woman who means to harm him most.</p><p>Killian, now desperate and alone with two more women who want to kill him, throws his own weight backward, toppling Cruella and causing her noose to not only loosen, but to fall away as her head slams against the wall and she crumples to the floor unconscious.</p><p>Unholstering his second knife, he beckons Maleficent forward, keeping his back to the stairs as he evades her swings. They break two more windows, a vase, and quite a few picture frames as they continue their struggle down the hall, each one unable to gain the upper hand. Until finally they are pressed against the opposite wall, the open window gaping hungrily as bloody shards of glass protrude like teeth around it. And with one quick kick to her center, Killian sends the witch following after her companion just in time to get a glimpse of Milah and Henry running after the red-headed witch into the night.</p><p>“Fuck,” he mumbles, because he really is doing a bad job at this whole hero thing, before turning and racing back down the stairs.</p><p>When he gets outside, the fresh air and night sky assault him in their pleasantness. He arrives in time to find Milah, her arms wrapped around a screaming Henry as she holds him back, her body rocking as the boy struggles to escape her grasp. </p><p>“No! I just want to talk to her! Please!” he protests.</p><p>“Henry, honey,” Milah whispers, almost maternal as she grips him, “She is evil. She will kill you. We shouldn’t have even come here tonight.”</p><p>“But my mom,” he sobs.</p><p>“She isn’t like your mom,” Milah assures him. </p><p>Inconsolable he continues. “Everyone called my mom evil, but she wasn’t. She just needed someone like me. I just want to talk to her.”</p><p>And Killian, having never been a parent, is stunned and confused. He isn’t sure if the boy is talking about Zelena or Regina in that moment. </p><p>But Milah knows.</p><p>“Shhhh,” she whispers as Henry stops struggling. “It’s alright. Sometimes mothers make mistakes. And sometimes they’ll sacrifice everything for their little boys. It’s going to be alright Henry. We’re going to fix this. But not by talking to that witch.”</p><p>Suddenly angry, Henry pushes away from her. “When you say ‘we’ who exactly are you referring to?”</p><p>“I thought I was being clear,” Milah offers, confusion running through her voice with a slight tremble, but even Killian isn’t buying it anymore. Not after tonight. “We’ll go back to plan A. Gather your family, help them remember. Break the curse.”</p><p>“I don’t know why you’re here, what you’re doing, or where you came from, but you are <em>not</em>  a part of my family. Just because Killian claims you're my grandmother does not mean you've been through what we have. You're not one of us!” Henry yells, and sensing that Killian is about to put a hand on his shoulder, he shrugs it off before it can even arrive. “And don’t get me started on you, Captain Hook, cause you’re not much better!”</p><p>“I just saved your life, you little shit!” she hisses. “If I wasn’t trying to help I could have left you there to die!”</p><p>Killian’s eyes drift to hers, calm and cold. </p><p>“And that’s the problem,” he whispers, sidestepping the boy. “Cassidy would have helped me back there. Instead, Milah helped her grandson.”</p><p>“So helping him suddenly makes me the bad guy?”</p><p>“No, but lying about having your memories does,” Killain hisses. “Who are you really, <em>Cassidy</em>?”</p><p>“Whoever she is, she’s not working with us,” Henry cuts off quickly, turning to stomp back toward the car.</p><p>“Killain,” she begs, grabbing at his arm as he turns to follow the boy. “Please, wait. He’s a child! You’re a man! Stop acting like a baby that I didn’t choose you <em>for once!</em>”</p><p>“If I see you anywhere near the boy again, Milah, I will kill you,” he warns, feeling his heart shatter at the thought. “We might have both been scoundrels back then, but we weren’t liars. We lived by a code of honor. One of us still does. Thank you for saving Henry tonight, but the boy is right, we can’t trust you.  I can't trust you. So however you got here, memories intact, you can find your own way back.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The Unstoppable Savior</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mary Margaret is nervous as she approaches the barbeque restaurant the man on the phone had mentioned, not being the kind of woman to have ever associated with Jack Ruby or any of his men. But, in the last twenty four hours she’s met a cult leader and learned of the existence of magic, so meeting a mafia man who claims to be her ex husband and David’s father doesn’t feel so insane. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sitting around her house waiting for Ray is starting to make her feel a little stir-crazy.</span>
</p><p>Still, she hires a babysitter just to be safe.</p><p><span>The man smiles wide, </span>quickly wiping his hands and face of barbeque sauce as she approaches, standing up to pull out her chair for her.</p><p>
  <span>“You said on the phone your name was David?” she asks, folding her hands in her lap as he makes his way back around the cheap, plastic table to seat himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, digging in his pocket and pulling out a piece of paper, handing it across to her gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll see,” he smiles patiently, and so she takes it, starting to unfold the edges gently, pausing halfway through when the rush of memories take over. He waits calmly for her to regain her composure before whispering, soft and hopefully, “Snow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charming,” she says, her voice so quiet it is almost a sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like something to drink?” he asks, starting to wave over a waiter, but she reaches out and stops his hand. “Okay, well, here, have some.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She picks at the barbeque and cornbread he pushes in front of her, her stomach twisting into knots. There were so many questions answered now, but a lot of new ones, too. And more than anything she just wants to fly across the table, wrapping her arms around his neck, and cry softly for all that’s been lost in the last two years. But that might turn a few heads, and so she restrains herself. But for a moment, very briefly, it is like they are alone in that restaurant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like your hair long,” he offers lamely as he watches her pick at the food, her story book page forgotten on the table next to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she mumbles. “You’re a mess. What happened to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lost a fight,” he says with a sigh. “Won a lot of others. Don’t worry, I’m good. Good weather. Good beer. Good company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there is that Charming smile that she hadn’t even realized she had missed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about you? How have you been?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds his breath, and she knows the question he’s really asking. Waiting to hear confirmation out of her own mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m also good,” she says awkwardly, knowing it’s not completely true. “I heard you came by. I’m sorry I wasn’t there...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I met your- um… Congrats by the way. He seems like a wonderful man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is,” Mary Margaret confirms, and she is crying now. Really, truly and deeply. Because so is David. And while these last two years have been a curse, they haven’t felt like it. And now she isn’t sure what to do about any of it. “But we don’t have to talk about him right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,” David says, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “You wouldn’t be the first Charming to get married to someone else under a curse, now would you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles, trying to muster up a laugh. He’s way more calm about all of this than she is. Then again, David always has been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what it’s worth,” he continues, “I’m glad you and the baby weren’t alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She places her hand on top of his before asking, “What about the others? Who else is here with us? Emma?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s alive and well. And on a very well-protected farm. Killian was in the nuthouse for a bit, broke out a few days ago, according to Archie. That one isn’t much of a surprise. Oh, and Henry and Archie are here too. I think that’s it. ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “No, Rumpelstiltskin is here as well. Started a cult. And he’s looking for Belle, so I have to assume she came along for the ride also.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think he’s behind all this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thinks back to their interactions, the chaoticness of the normally composed man, the weariness and frustration. And the magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure. He seems just as flustered as the rest of us, but he has his memories and his magic, so there is no telling. But the gang’s all here, so that’s normally when things start to go sideways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles. It doesn’t matter though. Because now that they have their memories back there is nothing they can't get through together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, we have to go to the police!” Lily insists. “Three women tried to kill you out in Mr. Reid’s corn field last night and you’re just going to act like it was nothing? They’re dangerous. And they could be hurting other people!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Emma whispered. “We can’t do that. They weren’t regular women, Lily. I don’t know much, but I do know that the police aren’t going to be any help here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” Lily sighed, shaking her head as she sunk down in the chair. “You know we ain’t gonna judge, but you’ve got to tell me now: are you in some sort of trouble with the law?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma thought back to the mafia man who had come to see her in the barn. To the crazy story the little boy had spun about her past. About the three well-dressed women in the cornfield.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” she shrugs. “I don’t know. Point is, Lily, I can’t stay here anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma no!” Lily insists, grabbing her hands and squeezing tightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Emma insists. “I can’t risk anything happening to you or Starla. I wouldn’t be able to live with that on my conscience. It’s too dangerous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she thought about the explosion of force back in the field. That power that could have flattened a house. The danger wasn’t just coming for her. It was inside of her, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stands and makes her way to grab the suitcase she had packed upon her return, sitting patiently by the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait!” Lily calls, standing up and rushing over to her, clinging to her hand in a panic. </span>
  <span>“We could go somewhere! The three of us, where this trouble can’t find you! We can lay low for a while - a few days, maybe a week. You, me, and Starla. On an adventure. We wouldn’t even need to tell Carl. I’ll bring the gun. I’ll keep you safe. Don’t do this. Don’t leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma runs her fingers through Lily’s brown hair as Lily embraces her, hugging her so tightly that the wind is knocked out of her lungs. It is a desperate plea, and Emma can do nothing but feel pity for it. Feel her own heart ache as the only love she can remember begs her not to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not right,” she whispers, her breath brushing against Lily’s neck as she continues to sob. “I can’t do that to this family-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I can’t lose you,” Lily reiterates. “<em>We</em> can’t lose you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a clattering from the living room and both women turn to see Starla, her doll clutched in one hand, the toy box she has just knocked into spilled across the floor as she stares at the two of them with tears in her big, brown eyes. She is struggling to breath through what is about to be a meltdown, both women are sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Starla,” Lily begins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Emma mumbles, knowing that it’s her fault as the little girl turns and dashes out the side door of the house, disappearing around the edge of their vision as the door slams behind her and both Lily and Emma are forced to chase after her out into the yard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But by the time they get there, it is empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily is beyond panic, her breathing hitched as she frantically searches behind the few objects in the yard that might conceal a child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily, we have to stay calm. We need to check her usual favorite places. You get the barn, I’ll head down to the lake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma doesn’t wait for a response as she jogs off down the little dirt path, calling for the missing girl as she goes, fear rising in her as she starts to notice little footprints in the muddy path, pulling her closer and closer to the water’s edge, soft splashing coming from the end of the dock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a sprint Emma rushes forward, down the little wooden walkway, out past where Starla is allowed to swim even with an adult to supervise, her eyes gliding over the surface of the lake, full of ripples and bubbles - recently disturbed. But no Starla in sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Starla!” she screams, searching the water for the place most likely to be concealing the little girl, but it’s too rough, and if Emma jumps in blind she is bound to waste precious time searching. She can’t waste that time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Desperate she closes her eyes, feeling for the power that exploded out of her last night. It has to be there, it can’t have just been a one-time thing. Trying to quell her fear, she reaches out her hands pressing them forward, gently, as if she is pushing one of the sheets on the drying line out of the way. She can feel the water resisting her, but she pushes harder, folding it out of her way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Opening her eyes again she sees the lake rising above her like a gigantic wave, all of the water forming an impressive wall, held aloft by a white shimmer of power - Emma’s power - to reveal the messy, muddy bottom of the lake. Starla lays still amongst the debris, but she is there and uncovered, and so Emma runs forward, sweeping the little girl into her arms and carrying her to the bank, setting her down in the soft mud. The wall of water collapses behind them, sloshing violently around the shores, as Emma turns her full attention to the little girl in front of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t look good, soaking wet and tinged blue, Starla lays unmoving as Emma begins CPR - her breathing and compressions becoming more aggressive the longer Starla takes to respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Emma begs between breaths, “Don’t. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are footsteps approaching down the path, Lily arriving on the scene, and now Emma is desperate to get the little girl to move before her mother arrives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she tries one last thing,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reaching inside herself again for that power - that force - she breaks off a very small piece of it. It is raw, chaotic energy, an unknown and uncontrollable force, but it is life and it is movement. And it is her last hope. Desperately she presses it into Starla’s chest with each compression, breaths it into her lungs with each saving breath, seeing the faint shimmer and then sharper glow start to encompass the little girl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gasp of air from little lungs and suddenly the world goes very still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Starla is breathing again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma helps her sit up, patting her back as she exhales murky water from her lungs, spitting and coughing, but completely alive, and so Emma is thankful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re oaky,” Emma whispers, more to herself than the little girl, rubbing small circles into her shoulders as Emma repeats those words over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily arrives, screaming her daughter’s name as she clutches the little girl to her chest, rocking her gently as the three of them take a few very shaky breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They take the little girl back to the house, Lily spending hours reading and singing to her while Emma prepares a dinner that never gets eaten. The food grows cold while Lily frets over her daughter and Carl fails to call to warn he will be late from the office. Eventually, Emma clears the table and pours two stiff drinks instead, waiting for Lily to emerge from the back hallway where the Page family lives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Lily does enter the room, she snatches up her glass of whiskey with a shaky breath and collapses onto the couch, gulping at the drink as if it were medicinal. The woman must have so many things on her mind, Emma can’t even imagine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Emma herself has a whole different set of complicated priorities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a day?” Lily finally laughs, the sound nervous and shaky as she beckons for Emma to join her, and reluctantly the blonde agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you hadn’t been there…” Lily trails off into sobs as Emma wraps her arms comfortingly around the other woman’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I was. The doctor says Starla is going to be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know, I just keep imagining what would happing if-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Emma actually left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words hand there in the air between them soft and uncomfortable as Emma brushes a lock of brown hair away from Lily’s eyes, using her thumbs to wipe tears off rounded cheekbones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily,” she begins gently, brining a suffocating silence over the room. “I should go. What happened today was my fault… and it could only get worse if I stayed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it wasn’t really about that either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know what it’s like for me?” Lily whispers, setting her drink down on the table and staring off into space. “I have a husband who doesn’t see me. A daughter who won’t talk to me. I live in a tiny little box here, Emma. And it gets smaller every day, until I don’t even notice it’s shrinking anymore. Don’t even notice I'm trapped. Until someone came along and freed me. Tell me, how I’m supposed to let you go? You’re my freedom Emma, how am I supposed to let that go? Because if you tell me, I will try, I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma opens her mouth to protest, the words getting caught in her throat as Lily leans in, brushing her lips lightly against Emma’s. It is a gentle kiss, soft and unsure, but it is also full of desperation and desire. And as much as Emma knows she should, she doesn’t want to resist the comfort of being loved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so she kisses back, with everything she has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret arrives home, unsure of what to do. She told David she needs time to think about all of this. She needs time to sort through her priorities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she stares at the open suitcase next to her bed and the sleeping toddler curled up on one of her pillows, she begins to hope that Ray won’t come home. Not because she doesn’t want him; not because she doesn’t need him right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But because that would make her decision easier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, there is a crashing noise, and she is forced to rush downstairs to see what in the world is going on in her living room. There have been bricks thrown through their window before, stray baseballs from the kids down the street. But it is a little early for one and a little too late for the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she finds, instead, is a very drunk cult leader, collapsed on her couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello,” He slurs, lifting his head to acknowledge her. “I hope you don’t mind, I let myself in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a trail of glass from the front window to the couch and blood marring the white sleeve of his suit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She isn’t sure what to say to him. She starts small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you do this to us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises his head again, this time struggling to focus on her through the haze, “Do what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The curse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he answers before making a shushing noise over his shoulder. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Technicality. She didn’t ask that.</span>
  </em>
  <span> No. I didn’t do this to us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know who did?” she says, letting her eyes drift to the empty space above his shoulder that he had just been addressing. Had the Dark One finally lost his mind?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unfortunately, yes,” he moans, pressing his face into the couch cushion. “Now if you don’t mind, I need a moment of peace from the two of you to get some sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why can’t you sleep at your own place?” she glares, hating her urge to take care of the broken man as she digs around for a blanket to cover him with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My cult came back,” he sighs. “They followed me here from California and now they won’t stop with the ‘Father this’ and the ‘Dark One that’... it almost makes me regret starting a cult. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, shut up, I did say almost.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who do you keep talking to?” she wonders, looking around the room for another presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baelfire,” he admits, raising his finger to his lips as if it is a secret. What isn't a secret is just how terribly drunk he is; she can smell the excess of scotch on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret’s heart swells with pity for the man. So she lets him stay the night. Because she doesn’t want to be the one to explain to him that his son is dead. The Dark One has finally lost it, and it only took the death of his son to bring it about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couch is all yours,” she tells him as he begins to hum a Frank Sinatra song and sob softly to himself - drunk, broken, and alone.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Renegade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The world was spinning. And entirely too loud. And bright. Dear God, when did it get so bright?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple’s head pounds as he pulls himself off the floor - unsure of when he had moved from the couch to the carpet in the middle of the night, his memories of collapsing on Mary Margaret’s sofa a little hazy to begin with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ARE YOU FINALLY AWAKE?” Neal shouts from across the room - which, for the record, is not a room large enough to warrant shouting. “HOW ARE YOU FEELING?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple clutches at his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not good. I dreamed that I’d spent the last three years haunted by my dead son as he constantly mocks and judges me. And here’s the worst part, he wasn’t even all that funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal grins, pointing to the table where he’s already set a mug of hot tea, steaming and ready to begin its work on his father’s hangover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a little magic to get your morning going,” he jokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple nods, making his way over to Mary Margaret’s liquor cabinet and beginning to riffle through the mostly full bottles until he emerges with one filled to the brim with scotch and begins to pour a healthy amount into the mug of tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Neal mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I asked you,” Rumple quips back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal lifts his hand, ready to smack the cup that is now mostly liquor off the table like a cat, when the stairs creak and they both turn to see Mary Margaret clutching at her bathrobe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still talking to Baelfire?” Mary Margaret asks as she enters the kitchen, filling her own mug with tea and a couple spoonfuls of sugar before sitting down at the table and smiling pityingly at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Rumple answers quickly as Neal throws his hands up in frustration. “Because that would be crazy. Baelfire is dead. No. I’m just talking to myself. As I… steal some of your libations. I hope that’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not,” Neal answers for her as the corners of her mouth tilt upward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not,” she corrects, taking the bottle of scotch out of his hand and setting it on the counter gently. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That a’ girl!” Neal cheers. “Don’t enable him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh come on, your marriage is in trouble - both of them actually, your husband’s rally turned into a riot, if now isn’t the time to drown our sorrows in silence together, I’m not sure when would be!” Rumple begs, reaching for the bottle again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She just continues to smile sweetly at him. “Tell me what happened, Mr. Gold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs, “Do you mean my cult tracking me down and taking over my manor like a swarm of locusts, or how I professed my undying love to a woman who doesn’t remember me and then proceeded to slap me in front of her future husband? And now Snow White is telling me not to drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snow White said no such thing,” she laughs, standing up to dig through the liquor cabinet herself, “But if we’re going to drink, we’re going to do it right. I’ve learned to make margaritas in the last two years, and if you’re really trying to forget something, let me tell you, tequila is the way to go!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew I always liked you most of all Ms. Blanchard,” Rumple chuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning,” Lily grins as Emma opens her eyes and yawns, sunlight streaming in through the windows as the roosters crow outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that coffee for me?” Emma asks, reaching for the mug in Lily’s hands as she uses her other hand to hold the blankets over her bare chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coco, actually, just the way you like it,” Lily smiles as the scent of cinnamon hits Emma’s nose and she moans with the joy of it. She can’t remember a time when she was this happy. Literally. She can’t remember anything before Lily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What time is it?” she asks, letting the taste of chocolate coat her mouth as Lily settles back into the bed around her, beautiful and comfortable-looking without all the make-up she normally bothered with. The soft morning glow highlighted round features, and Emma knew in that moment this was how Lily was meant to look. How Lily would look if she felt she had any say about herself in her own life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Lily laughs. “After yesterday, I think we’ve both earned a day off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma shoots her a skeptical smile, leaning in to kiss her forehead gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, half a day,” Lily amends. “Maybe just a few hours. Leave me alone and let me be happy, damn it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think we should talk about this?” Emma asks gently, setting her coco cup down so she can snuggle closer to Lily under the blankets. “I mean, do you want to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily shakes her head sadly, her hair tickling Emma’s nose. “No. Talking makes it real. And real things end. I want this to last forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma runs a hand over Lily’s bare shoulder, feeling the softness of the skin against he fingertips. “You know yesterday, when you were talking about us running away? What if we could? Then this wouldn’t have to end. Then it could last forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just tell me where and we’re on our way,” Lily smiles, half joking as she pulls Emma into another slow kiss, the blankets rustling around them. A kiss the two could get lost in for hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for the sound of car tires on a gravel road, Carl’s station wagon rolling up the driveway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit!” Lily swears, hopping out of the bed and dressing in a hurry. “You go get Starla up, I’ll start on breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, Emma and Starla sit at the breakfast table, listening to Lily and Carl argue in the kitchen. It’s tense, and uncomfortable, and everything Emma can do not to run in and intervene. Like always, he is being pushy, and lewd and dismissive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Emma turns her attention to Starla, who is playing with a game of operation, her little hand shaking so badly it keeps hitting the wall and causing the buzzer to go off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not in front of Starla!” Lily fusses from the kitchen as Carl once again grabs at her in a suggestive manner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Starla don’t know anything,” Carl dismisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the little buzzer on the table has Emma suspecting there is more to that story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally the arguing gets so bad Emma is forced to stand and defend, but she is quickly told by Lily to sit down, Carl’s gaze turning ice cold as it falls on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, why don’t you just take a day off?” he suggests, a threat thinly veiled under those words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that the window in the kitchen shatters, splashing glass across the counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma and Starla exchange a glance while Carl and Lily turn to face the glass, surprised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while Emma doesn’t know much about her powers, the funny thing is, she’s pretty sure she wasn’t the one to smash that window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What in the hell was that?” Carl asks, stepping over to inspect the mess, Lily following cautiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma feels a tiny hand reach across the table and grip hers, eyes wide with understanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand how they keep finding me!” Killian exclaims as he paces across the kitchen while David attempts to make breakfast and Henry and Archie sip at mugs of hot chocolate around the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t feel so special,” Henry corrects. “They’re after all of us. This timeline, it’s not the curse. The curse is happening back in Storybrooke. This timeline is a whole other spell meant to keep her biggest threats isolated while the witches hunt us down one by one. I'm sure even you've figured that much out by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which is why we’re not separating again,” Charming says, gesturing with his spatula. “If we stick together, we can fight them off, like the three- two of you did last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Archie has filled David in on Milah, but neither Killian, nor Henry, will talk about why she isn’t with them this morning. Any attempts at that conversation end in cold glares. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think the question is, why now?” Archie mumbles. “We’ve all been fine for years, until you show up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room falls silent as the adults exchange nervous glances.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re after me, aren’t they?” Henry mumbles. “They know Regina gave me a way to wake you all up, and so I’m their first priority, aren’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian and David exchange another look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault,” David assures him, while Killian gives him a skeptical look. “It isn’t!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t really matter whose fault it is, do we actually have a plan for once everyone has their memories back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All eyes dart around the breakfast table as David sits down plates of bacon and eggs in front of everyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like, do we know how to get back to Storybrooke?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See, talking to her doesn’t sound so crazy now, does it,” Henry pouts as he digs into his food with gusto.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t we just focus on getting everyone back together and go from there,” David suggests hopefully while Killian scoffs and Archie groans. “And as the person who came up wit that plan, I call dibs on not getting Mary Margaret. Things are kind of weird between us right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian smirks. “What’s going on there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” David mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want to talk about it, mate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s married,” David hisses, and then to clarify, “And not to me right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow... that’s rough,” Killian concedes, ducking out of the way as David reaches across the table to smack him. “What? I’m serious. That blows!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get Mary Margaret,” Henry cuts in, seeing that this is going nowhere. “David, you’ll go get Emma as she’s seen you the most. And Killian - try to rustle up Rumple and Belle if you can. Archie-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, just stay here,” Archie mumbles into his mug of hot chocolate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Henry says. “I was going to say, 'Archie, prepare for company.'”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m out!” Milah insists as she storms into Zelena’s hotel room, glaring angrily at the witch. “Send me back to The Underworld, I don’t care, I’m not going to help you hurt that child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zelena chuckles. “I don’t want to hurt him. I never said I wanted to hurt him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those homicidal witches you sent after us sure seemed to be ready to kill him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to know why I do the things I do,” Zelena grinned. "Or the witches for that matter. Think of them more like attack dogs, they don't always remember their training when they can smell blood."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do <em>you</em> know why you do the things you do?” Milah huffs, collapsing into a chair across from the wicked witch and glaring. “It doesn’t matter. They don’t trust me anymore. Killian says if I come back he’ll kill me. And I know the man well enough to believe him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fine, dear,” she sighs, looking up from where she is working at the table. “Did you at least manage to get me what I asked for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah sighs, pulling Killian’s knife out from one of the folds of her dress, still crusted in Sea Witch blood as she sets it down on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, my last gift to you,” Milah hisses. “Send me back to The Underworld.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Sit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blood is not your color, darling, and you are bleeding rather profusely. Let me fix that for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We aren’t friends,” Milah asserts as she sinks into the chair across from the witch, feels the chill of green magic creep up over her arm and begin to knit at the cut on her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right. We aren’t friends. I pulled you out of The Underworld and blackmailed you into a ridiculous plot while holding your biggest regret in front of you like a carrot. That was my mistake. So let’s be friends. I want to help you make what happened with your son right. And you want to help me make what happened with my sister right. Let’s start fresh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah scoffs. Fresh has nothing to do with the century-old grudges being held in this room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friends?” Zelena asks, holding out her hand as the wound on Milah’s arm finishes stitching itself together. “You don’t trust me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah scoffs again. That’s an understatement. “I’d trust you more if you stopped lying through your teeth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lies are funny,” Zelena chuckled. “You lied to them, they lied to me, we lie to each other. Everyone lies, buttercup, grow up. Yes, there is something about your son I’m not telling you. But if I thought it was in any way relevant to your desire to make things right with him, then I would have told you by now. I promise: my word is good. You help me get the boy, and I will help you talk to yours. The rest is just details, and you know who they say is in the details. A friend of yours, I think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter, Henry isn’t going to trust me anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t need to, honey. Now go wash up and get changed cause I have a very busy day scheduled for us - gal pals at last!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>Hardly</em>, Milah thinks, but with a promise that Zelena isn’t going to kill Henry and determination to see Baelfire before she returns to the hands of Hades, Milah shuffles toward a hot shower and some clothes that fit for the first time in months.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Family Reunion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“When I first arrived, Jello was all the rage,” Archie rambles. “It actually used to be considered a delicacy. You have to boil down a whole mess of animals to get it. But most people don’t have that just laying around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian continues to clean the new knives he has gathered. He seems to have developed a bad habit of losing them when attacked unprovoked. David leans against the couch, nervously tapping his fingers as he watches the door. Emma is the only one listening to Archie and even she doesn’t look too excited to be here. Then again, she wouldn’t take the paper. David had offered it to her, tried to trick her even, but she kept refusing and told him if he tried it one more time she was going to very carefully toss it out the car window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was almost like she didn’t want to remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But eventually,” Archie continues, “Two New Yorkers figured out a way to dehydrate it, dry it out, and now every man woman and child can enjoy a nice ambrosia salad like this one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t what Henry meant when he said 'prepare for company',” David mumbles under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we all eat some, will you stop talking about it?” Killian offers with a raised eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Archie concedes, spooning large helpings into the bowls he has stacked at the edge of the table and passing them around for all three to pick at. None of his guests seem super thrilled about the idea of putting any of it into their mouths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?” David finally asks as he tears his eyes away from the door, trying to distract himself with the daughter who doesn’t remember him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty shitty, to be honest,” she sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How shitty, on a scale of one to blowing us all sky high with your uncontrollable magic?” Killian asks with the most charming smile he can muster at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing her here is hard. Seeing her sitting where Milah had been only a day ago, even more so. Seeing her sitting where Milah had been, looking at him with a lack of recognition - even more painful then had she recognized him and hated him on sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Close to an eight. Stop asking,” she grumbles. “And put the knives away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No offense, but you’ve probably got some of the most powerful magic I’ve ever seen. And you have absolutely no control over it. I think I’ll keep my knives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>No offense</em>,” she says leaning forward in a hushed tone that completely implies offense, “But if that’s true, I doubt your little knives are going to help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian’s going through a lot right now,” David tries to amend. “You should just ignore him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Killian mumbles. “Most people do. When they aren’t stabbing me. Or lying to me about who they really are. See, there was this woman-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just then the door opens, sweet laughter pouring through and David has already jumped to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, thank God!” he exclaims, though it is unclear weather this is the relief of seeing Mary Margaret or just not having to listen to the rest of Killian's story. And once again Killian is back to being ignored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” Mary Margaret’s voice calls out. “Anyone home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All three anxiously make their way out into the entry hall, Killian trailing lamely behind them, to take in the final members of their group.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” Rumple grins, pulling off his sunglasses as he folds them into his pocket. “We really are a good looking group of heroes, aren’t we? I know this might seem a tad crazy, but did we all get more attractive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ignore him,” Mary Margaret mumbles. “He’s going through some stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, so is Killian,” David offers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of Killian, I see you managed to avoid finding your share of the group?” Henry asks with a raised eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then it’s a good thing you did it for me,” he mumbles, turning around and heading back into the living room to leave the Charming family - and Archie - to their happy reunion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” Mary Margaret breaths in wonder before rushing forward to wrap her daughter in a hug. “Oh, honey, I’ve missed you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>She doesn’t remember</em>,” David tries to mouth behind her, but it goes unnoticed, until Emma pulls away confused and everyone in the room realizes there is still a gap in her understanding as she turns to stare at Rumple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he drunk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a little inebriated,” Rumple says with a small hiccup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter, cause the family is all back together again!” Henry cheers, taking Rumple and David by the hand and pulling them into a group hug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the silence settles over them like a blanket as one by one they break away, all eyes falling sadly on Emma’s as she looks around confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because there is one member of the group who isn’t here. Or at least not in a way they can see, and his loss fills them all with immeasurable grief - his death the last thing most of them can remember before arriving here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Almost</em> all here,” Henry amends sadly, before turning to head into the living room where Killian waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell them I’m here, you dick!” Neal says, swatting his father in the shoulder. “Tell them I’ve missed them, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bae would have really loved to see all of you,” Rumple smiles softly before following his grandson out of the room. “It is unfortunate he’s no longer with us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you kidding me!?” Neal shouts, throwing his hands up in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three witches do not notice that the query they chase through the woods is just a little too tall to be Mary Margaret, a little too dark in complexion to be Emma. They do not notice that the boot prints are there one second and then gone the next, as if the woman in black is using magic to aid her escape. The three witches do not notice anything different as they come to a stop in a clearing, one very long knife protruding out of a tree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Ursula recognizes that knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still has some of her blood on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She steps forward less than cautiously, anger taking over, as she ignores Cruella’s hands trying to pull her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is Maleficent who notices the trip wire first, reaching out with a swirl of her magic to try and pull Ursula back. But it is too late, the pin has been pulled and the grenades under the base of the tree are tugged free, exploding in shrapnel and fire and tentacles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ringing of the explosion is the only noise that can be heard through out the clearing, Cruella and Maleficent both exchanging hurt looks, neither one wanting to step forward to examine what is left of their fallen sister. Nothing but one of her emerald green tentacles. Both eyes fall on Killian’s knife sticking out of the tree. It seems pretty clear to them who is responsible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me again what the point of that was?” Milah asks as Zelena takes her arm and leads her away through a swirling green vortex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Motivation,” Zelena chuckles. “I didn’t like how slowly they were going about things. Now try to keep up, our next stop is a little more complicated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They aren't really working <em>with</em> you, are they?" Milah asks skeptically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"With me. For me. Parallel to me. It doesn't really matter as long as our end goal is the same. They want to hunt down and kill our heroes as much as us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So you're tricking them into thinking that the heroes are after them?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm just pointing them in the right direction, dear. They have legitimate reasons to hate our pesky little do-gooders. And a few less than legitimate. Now they have another one."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are not there to see the burial at sea - or, rather, very large lake - that Cruella and Malevolent put together for their fallen sister later that night. They are not there to see the tears that the two remaining Queens of Darkness cry over a friend they loved like family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because even villains have their moments of weakness. And even villains of circumstance - unlike Zelena - can love the ones they fight alongside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Henry begins, “I’ve brought us all here because we need to break this curse and get back to Storybrooke before-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my Gods, again,” Rumple rolls his eyes from the couch where he is already helping himself to some of Archie's old whiskey. “Haven’t we done this storyline before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hush,” Mary Margaret says smacking him in the arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not wrong though,” Killian mumbles, reaching for the bottle and taking a large gulp before passing it back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pretending he hadn’t noticed their little outburst, Henry continues, “There seem to be some inconsistencies here. We need to iron out their reasons, and then I think we can go about figuring out how to break it. For starters, Killian and Mr. Gold didn’t get their memories stolen-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, can’t Emma just do some Savior magic and fix all this? I mean isn't that always the answer? Emma does some sort of magic and everything’s better. Or worse. Depending on what side of the line you're standing on,” Rumple mumbles, all eyes turning angrily back to him. “I mean that’s the way we’ve always done it before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Except Emma won’t take the paper and so she doesn’t remember who she is or how to harness her magic,” Mary Margaret warns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s an easy enough fix,” Rumple says, rolling up his sleeves. “Hook, you get her arms, I’ve got her legs…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one is forcing her,” David insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it isn’t those words that stop The Dark One. It’s his son, kneeling down in front of Emma, desperately trying to place his hand on her knee, frustration building on his furrowed brow as each time his hand just passes through her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Em,” Neal whispers. “I know it hurts. I know you’re scared. But you have to remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Rumple understands, sitting back down carefully. Because if he could forget that Neal was dead, he’d want to as well. There is a part of Emma, somewhere still inside her, that doesn’t <em>want</em> to remember who she is. Because it means remembering what she lost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, if he was here, he would tell you to take the paper,” Rumple mumbles, and the room looks away, embarrassed that they hadn’t put the pieces together before now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He?” she asks, looking around, but no one will meet her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me, baby,” Neal whispers, running his fingertips along her cheek, but he goes unnoticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Henry clears his throat. “My mother said the answer were in the questions we were left with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I was your mother?” Emma asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My <em>other</em> mother. She said the answers are in the questions. And my question is why did Mr. Gold and Killian get to keep their memories?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They are the only villains,” Archie mumbles, not quite an accusation, but definitely untrusting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” Killian intercedes. “<em>Ex</em>-villains. We’re trying here. And I wish I knew why I had to be the one to keep my memories! Why I spent almost a year in the nuthouse because I remembered and the rest of you didn’t. But I don’t have a clue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me either,” Rumple says with a shrug and a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Neal asks, standing up from his spot in front of Emma and storming over to his dad. “You’re really not going to tell them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is a mystery to me,” Rumple continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we’re right back to nothing,” Henry sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa, you have to tell them!” Neal insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not nothing,” Killian mumbles. “We’re together now. And with one notable exception, we’re all aware that we’re being hunted by an evil witch who is capable of resurrecting the dead to manipulate us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s capable of <em>what </em>now?” Rumple asks, suddenly very interested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She brought back Milah,” Killian informs him. “I don’t know for sure, but Milah was here and she was pretending not to remember us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple’s eyes dart to the corner of the room, everyone else following his gaze. But there is nothing there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, fine,” he sighs. “I got to keep my memories cause it’s<em> my</em> magic the brought us here. She used my dagger to take us back over. She used my magic to take us here. And she used my magic to lightly relocate us all into the 1960s. Killian probably got to keep his memories because she knew he was dumb enough to walk right into the Milah trap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s perfect!” Mary Margaret exclaimed. “So you can use your magic to get us back!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Except you don’t actually have any magic,” Neal reminded him. Like he needed reminding. He was painfully aware of that fact every day that he was stuck here trying to get to Belle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have any magic,” Rumple admits. “I have a small gift that Zelena left me with, probably in an attempt to manipulate me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you lying?” David asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not telling the truth, either,” Neal scolds, settling his hands to rest on the back of Emma’s chair as he glares around the room. “Tell them about me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Rumple insists louder and the whole room jumps at the anger in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you at least tell us more about the curse?” Emma finally asks, finding her courage faster than the rest of the room as Neal beams down at her proudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a simple Time Curse. Which is to say, not very simple at all. It’s a great way to separate us, across the span of years. Makes us easier to isolate and eliminate. But she has to be very careful we don’t alter the timeline. I suspect that’s why she dumped us all the way out here in Dallas. The changes we make now can cause a ripple effect into the future. The more changes, the less likely Storybrooke is to remain the same. She can kill us in the past, because we aren’t supposed to be here. But she has to make sure the rest of history remains unchanged. And if we want to go back to the Storybrooke we all know and love, we need to make sure it stays unchanged, too. No one here has been meddling, have they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All eyes shift around the room before Archie very calmly mumbles, “I haven't.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is all very lovely. And very complicated. What if we just kill the witch?” Killian suggests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can,” Rumple says with a shrug. “But we better hope she has my dagger or some escape plan on her, otherwise we’ve also just killed our only way out of here. And who knows if us staying here in the past for the rest of our lives works out, of if it triggers a nuclear war that wipes out the world before Henry is even technically born.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that the room erupts into chaos, everyone shouting their panicked plans at once. Even Neal, who can only be heard by one eighth of the room, is adding to the loud commotion as words like ‘politics’ and ‘cult’ and ‘everyone dead’ get tossed around the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up!” Henry screams. “Everyone just shut up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All eyes turn to him, as he bites his lip to hold back tears. “My mom gave her life to help us solve this. She gave our memories back, and brought us back together, and tried to help us solve this puzzle the best she could. And I will not let that sacrifice be in vain. So everyone just shut up unless you have something useful to say. Now, I had a plan. I wanted to talk to the witch - to Zelena. To reason with her. And maybe it’s not the best plan. But it’s the only one we’ve got. And, I’m sure, it’s what my mom would have wanted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m out,” Killian says, standing up with a shrug. “If my options are live in the past or get brutally murdered by the witch, I’m going to go start applying for jobs, because it looks like I’m going to be here for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian, wait!” the group calls, but he is already out the front door and storming down the steps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go get him,” David promises, standing up and hurrying off after him, Henry followign them both into the stairwell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t go!” Henry protests, running to keep up, David two steps behind. “We need you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one needs me, kid,” Killian insists, shoving past him, Henry snagging his sleeve at the last second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to let you walk out on our family!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Call me family one more time and see what happens,” Killian growls, shrugging Henry off so violently that he stumbles and has to grab ahold of the railing to keep from falling down the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does pushing a child make you feel better?” David asks as they stumble out onto the street, Henry sinking down onto the stoop as David continues to chase after Killian. “Come on Captain Moodswing, you just gonna threaten us all and then run off? It would be in character!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave me alone,” Killian grumbles. “Maybe the more we fight this thing, the worse it gets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we should just do nothing, let her pick us off one by one?” David asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe!” Killian insists, though he knows how crazy it sounds. “Maybe I’m just tired of fighting the good fight when it never seems to pay off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David chuckles, slapping a hand on Killain’s shoulder. “The payday isn’t the point. We keep fighting the good fight because that’s what good guys do. And it’s hard. But it’s better than dying, which is where giving up gets you. Do you want to be a hero, Killian? Or do you want to be dead? It’s an easy choice for me. Maybe it’s not for you. You know, you are so Goddamned glib that sometimes I forget what a sensitive bastard you are? Listen to me. It’s all going to work out. Come back, help us out, and it’ll all work out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but how do you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t. But you just have to have faith sometimes,” David smiled. But when they got back, they found the stoop empty. Hoping Henry had gone inside, they climbed the apartment stairs only to find Archie eating a bowl of ambrosia salad alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did everyone go?” David asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Gold said he wasn’t eating this shit,” Archie says with a shrug. “I think they all went for Tacos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s an easy enough explanation, so they sit down to pick at the gelatinous glob in their bowls, never thinking to ask if Henry went with them. Meanwhile, Neal stands at the window, knocking papers off shelves as he desperately tries to get someone’s attention. Because Henry is running down the street full speed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chasing after Milah.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Tying Up Loose Ends... Or Trying To</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lunch out for tacos turns into wine and old - well, technically new - vinyl records at Mary Margaret’s house so that she can send her babysitter home. She bitches and moans as they set the takeout containers on the table, Mr. Gold only half listening because he’s heard it all already this morning after margaritas, and Emma is only half listening because she has no clue what anyone is talking about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I love him,” Mary Margaret says, popping the cork out of a bottle of wine and pouring it into glasses. “One little thing goes wrong and he’s just turning his back on me? I mean, maybe it wasn’t one little thing… but he is definitely overreacting!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple nods sympathy as she fills his wine cup, gulping it down eagerly before extending it to be filled again - Emma’s glass still empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you better fix it,” he offers, “Because if Killian’s right, we’re all going to be here for a very long time. Unless you and the Davids plan on running off together - but you’d still be legally married to Ray. Hey, what do you think Henry will look like if he grows up in the 60s? You think he’d finally have a decent sense of style?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s twelve,” Mary Margaret chides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twelve is plenty of time to have put thought into one’s personal appearance, dearie,” he shoots back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't you have more important things to worry about right now than what your grandson dresses like?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don’t want to hear it Mrs. I-Have-Two-Husbands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Mary Margaret scoffs as Emma’s eyes continue to dart back and forth between the two. “I technically-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, dearie, as someone who gets by on loopholes, let me tell you, if you have to use the word ‘technically’ you’re already in trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This family is amazing,” Emma chuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we focus here?” Mary Margaret prods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should you really be asking any of us for relationship advice anyway?” Rumple asks, lifting his glass as if to toast, “That’s like asking a spider how to make honey, or a bee to spin a web. What do Emma and I know about love? Emma’s having some torrid affair with a farm Frau. And honestly that’s a big improvement over the pirate if you ask me. Meanwhile, I’m carrying a torch for a woman who thinks I’m just a crazy, old stalker. Honestly, your best bet would be to ask Bae, but he’s not super helpful these days, either! The only thing any of us seem to know about love is how to lose it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is Bae?” Emma asks, her eyes nervously darting around the table for an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Henry’s father,” Mary Margaret offers. "You knew him as Neal."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something twists inside Emma’s chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You met him when you were young and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Emma rushes to say, not liking the pain that seems to be spreading from her heart outward to consume her. There is something very bed associated with that name. Something too painful to remember. So she won’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers?” Mary Margaret offers, lifting her glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers,” the other two offer halfheartedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How am I supposed to deal with this?” Emma mumbles. “Time travel? Curses? Witches? How do you cope?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, so far drinking has been working,” Rumple said with a grin. “Mary Margaret tends to prefer naive optimism. David tends to stick to denial. And Killian clings to rabid revenge. It helps us all get through the day. Oh, and you, you’re the best of all. You suppress all your emotions, deep, deep down, until they burst out of you in little magical explosions that are sometimes helpful and sometimes not. ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret kicks him under the table, but he only grins at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? She’s doing it right now. She won’t take the paper because she doesn’t want to remember Neal, and eventually it’s going to explode like a bomb. I don’t need to see the future to know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’d really like to not do that,” Emma says, lifting her glass to her lips. “What if we faced our problems instead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not very likely,” Rumple mumbled. “I’ve been dealing with the Charming family long enough to know that’s not going to happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it will!” Emma says, standing with joy. “I’m going to tell Lily that I love her. Mary Margaret, you need to decide which marriage you want to keep and start working on that one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, does this mean I have to face my cult?” Rumple grumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma is more than a little drunk when she arrives back at the farm to confess to Lily. She is eager to get the weight off her chest, to profess her love for someone who will love her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who won’t run away. Who won’t hurt her. Who won’t just up and die in her arms for no reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That last one is a strange thought, and so she pushes it away, looking around the living room and kitchen eagerly for Lily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she hears instead is soft giggling from the back bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door shuts a little too loudly behind her, and the noises stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma?” she hears Lily’s voice call shakily, and then she hears the familiar footsteps of Lily padding down the hallway toward her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She appears in her nightgown and Emma can’t help but think about how beautiful she looks, like an angel haloed in the light of the fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fire burning in the fire place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With two half empty glasses of wine in front of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Discarded articles of clothing leading from the living room to the back bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily looks ashamed as she watches Emma’s face fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came here to tell you… I wanted to say…” Emma stutters as her brain works harder to catch up. What did she want to say now? She takes Lily’s hands and looks into those sad eyes. Why is she so sad?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” Lily whispers, pulling her hands away quickly. “Now is not a good time…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the only time! You could be gone tomorrow! I could be gone tomorrow! I don’t want to lose you, Lily!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily? What is taking so long?” Carl calls, as he exits the bedroom as well, wearing far less clothes than Emma would care for. And that’s when the realization comes slamming into her. What all the clues have been trying to tell her. She waits for Lily to assure her husband that she is coming back to bed in a moment before letting her fake smile fade into anger and disappointment. Lily can’t meet her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You slept with him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s still my husband.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who you don’t love anymore!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” Lily hisses, gesturing for her to lower her voice. “I need you to be a little patient with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are miserable!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me what I am! Who gets to be happy all the time, Emma? I’m just asking for a little time. A little time. I have a lot to figure out after last night…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have nothing to figure out,” Emma growls, turning around and heading back out the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe when you can remember what your real life was like, you’ll feel less inclined to tell people how to live theirs!” Lily calls after her as the door slams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret calls Ray at the shop. She insists he come home right away. Unlike Emma, she doesn’t know what she wants, or where her heart truly is, but she knows she needs to be honest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when he arrives home, still looking hurt and distrustful, she tells him everything. From her childhood in The Enchanted Forest, to her life back in Storybrooke. She tells him everything and she begs that he try to be open-minded and understanding about all of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is especially understanding of her arrival in Dallas. Of being scared and alone. Of being leered at and propositioned by men who saw her son as an excuse to look down on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>About how he had been right: she had literally fallen out of the sky. But he had also been wrong: her running into that shop, afraid and alone and being chased, had been entirely by accident.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She told him how thankful she was that they offered her a job. How thankful she was that they let her join their circle of friends and their Social Justice Committee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And most importantly how thankful she is to have met Ray.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She patiently answers all his question, and a few that he doesn’t ask as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But at the end he asks her what she plans to do, and she doesn’t have an answer for that question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa’s home!” Rumple calls as he opens the door to the manor, his followers standing to embrace him. He winces at the sudden claustrophobia, as they press around him, but tries his best to smile. He isn’t sure what he is going to tell them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he decides to avoid them, slipping into his little study at the back of the house and locking the door behind him, much to the protests of his many followers. And then he takes a small nap, because he’s pretty sure he’s earned it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa, this is an emergency!” Neal shouts, appearing in the center of the room so suddenly that Rumple sits bolt upright, struggling to focus on the hazy apparition that is his ghost of a son.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now it is, you just gave me a heart attack!” he exclaims.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious. Henry and the others are about to walk into a trap. I need you to warn them about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How would you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m all-seeing, remember? I followed him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, well, I’m about to let my followers know I’m leaving. So we’ll go as soon as that’s over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s… even more of an emergency… Papa, you can’t just break up with a cult. That’s when things… go a little sideways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a cult. And I’ll hide the Kool-Aid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you put any thought into this at all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just going to say ‘I’m done leading you all now, go find another magical man with impeccable fashion sense to follow’. Is that not enough?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You owe them the truth,” Neal insists, sitting down in the chair across from his father. “Which is that you’re a liar and a fraud and a bit of narcissist! These are real people, not just decorative pocket squares you can try on and toss out whenever you feel like it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can help you with this Henry thing, or I can give an honest and heartfelt speech to my fans. But I can’t do both things son, I’m not magic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal rolled his eyes and mumbled something under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said it’s what Belle would want you to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that one’s a low blow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Low enough to work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple answered him with a sigh, throwing open the door and calling for a gathering of his followers in the garden, half of them tripping over themselves so that by the time he and Neal reached it at their leisurely pace, most of the cult was already outside, the few stragglers scrambling eagerly for words of wisdom. They were shouting greetings and playing instruments, and the whole thing was just very frustrating in Rumple's opinion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, that’ll be enough,” Rumple mumbled. “Enough with the tambourines, alright? No one likes tambourines!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple looked to Neal one last time, who mouthed ‘<em>I love you</em>’ with his best puppy dog grin. Sometimes Rumple hated how close the apple had fallen to the tree, and while Neal might have been a little more clear on the line between right and wrong, there was no denying his manipulation skills came directly from his father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So as I’ve been out these last few days, I’ve done a lot of… ruminating… on the facts of life and searching for meaning… and there is something that I’d like to share with all of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get to the point!” Neal heckled with a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a fraud,” Rumple confessed, crossing his arms with a glare. “I’ve been lying to all of you from the start. I’m a complete and total charlatan. In this world at least… no that doesn’t matter… I’m a fake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too!” one of his followers announces as he stands up. “Father Dark One is right, we’re all frauds. We’re frauds every time we lie to ourselves! But your teachings say that-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Rumple intoned dryly. “I’m literally a fraud. None of my teachings are real.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a fraud, too,” someone else called from the back. “I’m untrue to myself and to others!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, let me try this one more time,” Rumple sighs. “I’m not a guru. I’m not a messiah. I’m an old man with an exceptional education, and that’s about it. Don’t follow me. Don’t listen to me. I’m just making it up as I go… so just… scurry on home to your regular lives. This little spiritual lifestyle thing we’ve got going here is over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand,” whispers a girl in the front.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finally,” Rumple groans, turning to leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When we admit our own fraudulence, only then can we experience true humility,” the girl finishes, murmurs of agreement shooting through the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point Neal looks just as shocked as Rumple. He shakes his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he watches his father try to swallow years of anger and intolerance for stupidity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Rumple says clearly. “That is not what I meant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is too late. Men and women across the audience are now popping up left and right to announce that they are frauds. To confess their own fakeness and proclaim his ‘teachings’ wise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple turns to face Neal, throwing his arms up in frustration, and Neal shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least you tried,” he mumbles as he follows his father out.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. A Light Supper Invite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Henry follows Milah all the way to an abandoned paint factory down the road. She is running at a leisurely pace, just slow enough for him to keep up, too fast for him to actually catch her. He is too young, and too inexperienced, to think that might be intentional.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she arrives he watches her smash the glass out of a window, unlocking the door and climbing agilely inside. Careful not to be seen, he follows at a safe distance, waiting until she is out of sight inside the factory to open the door and creep inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His attempts at stealth, however good, are wasted though. She is waiting for him just in the next room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your game, crazy lady?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who cares?" she grins, “I’m not working with you anymore, remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why are you stalking us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you’re stalking me. You did just follow me here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you take us to Zelena.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” she grins, “If you can catch me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she is off again into the dark of the factory, the only thing left to track her by is the reverberating sound of her boots. And he is running after her full speed, which is his mistake as he stumbles into the next room, a foot outstretched in the doorway causing him to trip, falling onto his hands and knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do better,” she goads, turning and taking off further down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry wastes no time getting back to his feet and continuing the chase, like a game of tag, but with much higher stakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s right. He can do better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So instead of following her, he takes another hall, running parallel to come out the other end in front of her - grinning as his arms spread wide to block her path. She shakes her head ruefully, chocolate curls bouncing across her shoulders, and lashes out with a fist, which he blocks with his forearm, twisting to kick in a panic at her knee and causing her to stumble backward with a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did your papa teach you that?” she smiled. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brings her fist up quickly, and again he blocks it, twisting his hips to catch her wrist on the rebound, and using the momentum to swing her arm, and thus her entire stance, to face away from him. “And my mother taught me that,” he grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His next move would be to put distance between the two of them with a shove, but before he can get to that there is a whooshing noise, and a green portal opens up in front of them. Milah, thinking quicly, uses her forward-falling momentum to stumble through it, the whole thing closing just as quickly as it opens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now show me what Regina taught you,” she taunts, and Henry spins, seeing her step out of another portal behind him. How had she done that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t have time to process it, because now she’s on the offensive, sweeping at him with a high kick, and for the first time in his life Henry really hates how talented his family is at kicking ass. He turns the the side, taking half a step back before bracing himself for the next hit, and can’t help but notice, as her knuckles collide with his shoulder, that she is pulling her punches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck that. He’s twelve, but if she’s going to fight him, she might as well put her best effort into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fueled by the anger of everyone treating him like he’s just a child in need of protecting, at the rage of never being listened to or taken seriously despite being the only one who ever has a clue what is going on, he picks up his left foot and kicks outward, causing her to stumble back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that’s good. But it’s still your mother. I said show me what that witch Regina taught you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she is off again through another portal, and Henry gets the picture. She wants magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he tries, hands outstretched. He tries desperately to open his own portal where hers has just closed, but now she is behind him again, and she shoves him, more playfully than fighting, causing him to stumble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fight fair!” he screams, turning to face her as once again she is disappearing through a swirling green vortex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fight <em>smarter</em>,” she taunts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he does. He reaches out and grabs her wrist, clamping down so hard he is probably leaving bruises as he tries to follows her through. But the bracelet at his wrist begins to sting, and then ache, and he is pushed backward and away from the magic that engulfs his grandmother. Of course, his mother's bracelet won't let him near any magic - it had even warded against itself. Did Milah know that, or did she actually expect him to follow that time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe you should take it off," she calls as he sprints across the room to her new location, grapping at her forearms again before she has time to take off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not a chance!" he shoots back through gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that’s my boy,” she grins, twisting away from him like a dance, and then gesturing for him to come and get her. And he does, he runs full force at her, tackling her back to the ground as her feet fly out from under her and the sound of bodies hitting concrete echoes throughout the room, Henry using his weight to keep her pinned underneath him. It's a feeble attempt, she is built tall and lean like a panther, ready to toss him aside at any moment. But his hands pressed against her shoulders is almost like an embrace, and Milah isn't ready to let it go just yet, despite having already delivered on her end of the deal. They had suspected Regina had sent him with some sort of protection. Now they knew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now tell me how you are doing that?” he growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not,” she says with a sad smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is then that he realizes the point of all this. Not only a test - to see what he was capable of - but a diversion. Henry doesn’t need to look up to see that all four of the doors into this room have been sealed off. He isn’t getting out of here. And he knows why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can come out now,” he calls into the darkness, putting on a brave face as he searches the room for the flash of red hair he knows is coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, you figured it out,” she laughs, stepping out from the shadows, the black hem of her dress swishing against the floor as her heels click with each measured step forward. “Then again, it wasn’t hard. I’m surprised it took you this long. Really, planting her in a psych ward, taking advantage of that simpleton pirate you all seem to keep around like a mascot, it was one of my more inspired plans.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I get up now?” Milah askes, rolling him off her as she sits up and rubs at the bruises her grandson as left on her shoulders. Looking dejected to hide the self-hatred on her features. Milah has always believed in a means to an end - but she wished it could have been different means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milah, give us a moment please?” Zelena says, gesturing to one of the blocked off doors, now suddenly a portal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You promised,” Milah hisses through clenched teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I do intend to keep it. Now, give us some privacy, we have important thing to discuss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she leaves, Henry sticks his tongue out at her and all she can see is her son. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You promised,” she repeats, more for herself than anyone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want from me?” Henry asks as soon as they have the room to themselves, eyeing the emerald pendent around the witch's neck, taking note of the way she touches it daintily as if it is made of glass and not hard stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to invite you to dinner,” she grins. “You wanted to talk. Let’s talk. But I want everyone there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because when I offer you your choices, I want everyone to get a say. It’s very democratic of me, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Again… why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why did you ask Milah to leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You ask a lot of questions."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My mother - Regina - taught me that. Why did Milah have to leave?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because,” the woman cackles with glee. “She’s not invited. But your father is!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My… dad? He’s here? He’s alive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she just grins, handing him a piece of parchment. “Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>”It’s clearly a set up!” Charming laughs as Henry tells the plan to the only three still waiting at Archie’s apartment. He is out of breath and a little sore from his fight with his grandmother, but he isn’t going to waste any of what little time they have. Tomorrow night is arriving fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, Henry is so determined not to waste their time that he doesn’t mention the little detail about his dad. The others don’t need to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially Emma, who looks extra upset, and is still adamantly refusing to let any of them get near her with the piece of the story book. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Obviously,” Killian agrees. “But I think we should go anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is why people stab you more than the rest of us,” Charming points out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t worry, me and her are going to have words about that,” Killian says, gently rubbing the patch of his stomach that still aches when he moves too quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is also why they put you in the nuthouse,” Charming reminds him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we should go,” Emma announces, startling everyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Killian grins, offering a wink Emma’s direction but she just turns away and pretends not to notice it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m not for it,” David said, raising a finger to wave at Killian and Emma. “We already know how this is going to go. She’s going to get into our heads. Play a few mind games. Try and turn us all against each other. Just watch. It's evil villain 101.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in David’s defense, she already had. Because Henry was set on going. With or without the rest of his family. Because his dad was going to be there, and he needed to see his dad. At the very least to say goodbye before heading back to their own time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think we can handle her,” Killian insists, and with Emma and Henry nodding their agreement, David is forced to concede. “It’s different this time. We go in as a united front - not all spread out and separate, ripe for the stabbing. From now on, we’re a team. Operation… Operation… Got a name for us, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Operation Zero,” Henry smiles.  “Because we can’t be divided.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like it,” Killian smiles. “Operation Zero!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches his hand out for fist bump, which Henry happily indulges while Emma and David roll their eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last place Milah had expected to end her day as Zelan’s new gal pal had been the community center Bingo hall, with half-marked cards and little dabbers filled with colorful ink spread out across the table between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hadn’t been enthused by the idea of ‘bonding’ with the witch to begin with, but this crossed the line from a little off, to just downright insane. After an afternoon of murder and bribery, Zelena wanted to unwind with a game of Bingo?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah was more than a little annoyed at the idea and the slow folksy music being pumped out through the speakers weren’t helping her headache at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“B-6!” Called the announcer at the front as the balls rattled to and fro inside the cage and several people around them began to scour their cards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have that one,” Zelena said with a grin, pointing with a manicured fingernail to the little box Milah had failed to mark. Maybe she should just go back to Hades, because this was worse than hell. And Milah might have done a lot of wrong in her day, but she seriously doubted her sins were bad enough to warrant this kind of torture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look alive, dear, it’s like your heart isn’t in it,” Zelena coos, stamping squares on her own card. “Oh come on, you’re going to get wrinkles if you keep making that face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah rolled her eyes, picking up the ink dabber and blotting a square as the announcer called another number.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right, I’ll bite,” Zelena finally mumbles when Milah doesn’t stop scowling. “What’s on your mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like you care.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh course I do! We’re friends now! And friends care about each other’s problems. So tell me, Milah, what has you too down to play Bingo with your bestie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah cringed at the sheer thought. She’d never had a lot of friends. But she certainly didn’t want to count Zelena amongst the lucky few. But this was about her boy, and she had to play nice in order to see him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you ask me to leave, earlier, when you were talking to Henry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Zelena asks, going back to staring at her card as if she hasn’t the faintest what Milah is referring to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the factory. You asked me to give you two some privacy. Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zelena looks up with a grin, painted red lips revealing sparkling white teeth that remind Milah of when predators bare their canines at prey. It is not a disarming smile, like Zelena would have hoped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing dear, I just didn’t think you’d want to hear me talk about Killian. Not after what you two just went through. Best friends try to be sensitive of each other's breakups.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah doubted Zelena knew very much about friendship at all and was now pulling these rules out of her ass to cover her own devious motives. But fine, she would play along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sensitive about Killian,” Milah assures her as another number is called and they both turn back to the Bingo cards in front of them. “It’s been centuries since I’ve felt anything for that man. You don’t have to worry about offending me. Or my loyalties, if that’s what’s in question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’d kill him if I asked?” Zelena grins, a few heads at the table around them turning to give curious looks, but the witch just smiles and shrugs as she waves them back to their own business.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Milah insists through gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please, you’re sweet on him!” Zelena cackles. “It’s alright to admit, he’s not really my type, but I could see why you might like the little rouge. Still, you hesitated when I asked if you’d kill him. Which is telling enough. Ask me if I’d kill him? Yes! I would! See, you don’t even have to ask me. Because I don’t have a little crush… oh, see, isn’t girl talk fun?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“B-9!” The announcer calls and Zelena squeals with glee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“BINGO BITCHES!” she shouts, waving her card in the air and Milah is forced to grimace away from all the attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, tons of fun. A real barrel of flying monkeys.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal sits on the edge of his dad’s bed, watching him pack a suitcase. Since the ‘coming clean’ plan didn’t work as well as Rumple had hoped, he is now going with plan B: sneaking out before anyone has a chance to notice. And now he is struggling to find his possessions, scattered around the room amidst other junk he had collected - Rumple always had been a collector - trying to find the few that were actually worth taking with him back to Storybrooke. The room looked as if disaster had hit it, paused in concern, and then backed over the room one more time, just in case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you fancy yourself as the smartest and most put together immortal being, so this might be kind of hard to hear,” Neal began as he watched his father dig. “But you’re a mess. Like, maybe when we get back to Storybrooke we find a therapist that specializes in centuries of trauma?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What makes you think you’re coming back with me?” Rumple growls, turning to glare as he slams another book into his suitcase. “Zelena put you here, probably to distract me. What makes you think you’re coming back too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wishful thinking,” Neal mumbled, before adding under his breath, “Dick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, if wishes were horses then beggars would ride,” Rumples grumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, my wishes aren’t horses, they’re plans. So you worry about helping Henry and I’ll worry about… my stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Secretive all of a sudden?” Rumple asks as he zips the bag, raising an eyebrow. “Now who does that remind me of?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say it,” Neal says with a shake of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s see, who do we know with a lot of secret plans? Someone really good at loopholes? Maybe someone who-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uses humor to deflect their frustration?” Neal cuts in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like father like son,” Rumple shoots back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m nothing like you. For example, I wouldn’t have started an accidental cult. And I wouldn’t have abandoned my son.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you just stole cars and abandoned his mother. And for the last time, it’s not a cult!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t abandon Emma!” Neal shouts, rising from the bed in anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you gonna do, hit me with your ghost hands?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They hurt like real ones,” Neal shoots back as he rushes forward, really intent on shoving his dad more than anything else. But he’s mad, and frustrated, and feeling more than a little frightened about the safety of his son and the state of his own afterlife, and so his hands don’t bounce against his dad’s shoulders like he is hoping. But they don’t pass through, either. They get stuck there, somewhere in-between pulling Neal in, and for a moment he can… feel again. He can feel the carpet under his dad’s feet. He can feel the barley perceptible weight of his dad’s shirt against his shoulders. The constant tug of gravity pulling him downward. The steady pulse of a beating heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he’s alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s a part of his father, which brings back terrible memories of dying in a forest; but he’s alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out!” He hears a voice scream inside his head, and suddenly he’s being thrown backward against the wall - no more tactile sensations, no more pulse, no more gravity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both men pause to look at each other in fear and panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was weird,” Neal finally offers as both sink down into chairs opposite the other. Processing not only the events that have just occurred, but the heavy implications that they carry with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is the soft clicking of the door opening behind them, but both are two lost in thought to notice the two women enter, staring curiously at Rumple shivering in his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baelfire, what the hell was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think… I think we’re still joined somehow…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well don’t do it again!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this a bad time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both turn, finally noticing the two onlookers, one of Rumple's followers looking apologetic and Belle looking uncomfortable to her left - twisting her ring and clutching a piece of paper in her left hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He assures her it isn’t a bad time at all, asks if she would like to take a stroll with him in the gardens, and then shoots Neal a warning glare not to follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Belle, dearie, how did you find me?” Rumple asks, one hand shoved in his pocket the other holding a glass of wine in his hands as they stroll through the gardens around his manor. He had offered her a glass as well, but she had politely declined, instead walking an awkward distance away from him, but not far enough to be distant. As if she wanted to take his hand, but knew it would be improper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your followers hang fliers all over town. Some at the library,” she admits with a nod, continuing to twist nervously at her ring. “They’ve got your face all over them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles, embarrassed at the terrible drawing she is holding, gripped in her left hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I’m glad you’re here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not staying,” she hurries to amend quickly. “I mean I’m not joining. I just felt I owed you an apology. For what happened at the diner the other day. That wasn’t me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, dearie, it’s the most <em>you</em> thing you’ve done so far,” he grins. “And anyway, as my son would gladly point out, it’s good for someone to knock me down a peg or two every now and then. Or in your case, slap me down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tries to hide a chuckle as they pass a babbling fountain and he suppresses the urge to tell her he had these gardens designed with her in mind. That for three years he’s been waiting for her, and he can’t believe he not only missed her arrival, but bungled their reunion so badly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you really here, Ms. French, because I know it’s not about the apology?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the diner, you said...” she begins, taking a steadying breath. “You said you knew me, before I arrived in Dallas. And I believe you. I mean, I feel like I know you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do I know you?” he asks, watching her curls bob as she nods. How to answer that question? He stops in front of a rose bush, stopping to pick one for her. “These were always your favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still are,” she says with an uncomfortable smile as she brings it to her nose to inhale the velvet scent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We meant a lot to each other, before. I loved you. You loved me too, though I didn’t always deserve it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mentioned a son?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mine, not yours,” he assures her. “We didn’t have children in our life before. But maybe some day we would have. Can I give you something that will answer all your questions?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, setting down the rose on the walkway next to them as he reaches under his collar and produces the chain with the chipped porcelain at the end. Because Regina wasn’t the only one who prepared fail-safes for this trip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It used to be a teacup,” he offers as he sets it gently in her outstretched palm. "That piece is about all that survived my fall here, but it should be enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches her wrap her fingers around the shard, the chain dangling out from her closed fist, as her eyes drift closed and she tilts her face to the sky, letting the sunshine illuminate every soft curve, every happy line. She is beautiful like that, standing in the gardens he built for her, surrounded by roses and rays of light, like she always should have been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly she opens her eyes again, her lip trembling as she hands him back the little piece of their shattered tea cup, letting out a heavy breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Rumple. Thank you for the memories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So now you see why you can’t marry that man?” he asks, slipping the chain back around his neck as he takes her hands in his. “Why if you continue down this path, you would regret it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she whispers, pulling her hands away softly, her eyes offering him the apology she isnt sure how to say. “I see the life I had before Dallas. But I’m happy here. I’m happy <em>now</em>. I’m glad I don’t have to always wonder what I’ve forgotten, but things have always been rough between us, Rumple, and I love you, but I love my husband, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Belle, we’re going back to Storybrooke,” Rumple whispers. “You can’t marry him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I already have. We eloped, two days ago. You might be going back to Storybrooke. But I’m staying here. Showing me all that, it just cements my decision. This is the life I want! It’s simple! It’s uncomplicated! It’s happy! You were dead, Rumple, I lost you. And If I go back to Storybrooke I just have years of losing you over and over again ahead of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now she is crying, tears streaming down her cheeks, but as his brings his fingers up to wipe them away she pulls away from him with a soft sob before turning to run down the path. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she snaps, still crying as she turns back to face him. “I’m happy here, Rumple, can’t you be happy for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Just like with Bae, he will never be truly happy as long as this piece is missing. But unlike with Bae, he has learned when to step away and let sleeping dogs lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am,” he lies, pulling his necklace back and handing it to her. “Keep this, it’s all I have left of you. You should have it.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. This is What You Want; This Is What You Get</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: This is the chapter that I have tagged for major character death. I don't want to spoil who it is, but be aware that it is here at the very end of the chapter and proceed with caution.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It is crowded in the little elevator that will take them to the rooftop restaurant where Zelena is hosting their dinner, six bodies and one ghost, trying not to think too much about the day they’ve had. Belle had declined her invitation, insisted that anything to do with that life was behind her. Archie had intended to go, but at the last minute forgotten his house keys and had to turn back. He had never caught up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And no one blamed him for chickening out, the remaining six - and one ghost - weren’t super excited to be here, either. And they were all trying very hard not to think about how, if Zelena wanted them all dead, dropping the elevator with them inside would probably be the fastest way to achieve that particular goal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all fidgeted nervously, watching the numbers tick up to the top, until the doors dinged open and let them all push forward, eager to set their feet on solid ground again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the little restaurant - a rooftop tiki bar, actually - was empty save for a waiter and a large table, open and waiting for the six of them at the center - all other furniture pushed patiently to the sides. Had they been thinking a little more clearly, they might have noticed the lack of seats prepared for Archie and Belle, as if Zelena knew they wouldn’t be joining, but each was so full of nervous energy to care about those kind of details. Instead that let their eyes travel around the details of the fake tropical paradise - a large fish-tank taking up the back wall and intricate decorations that appeared to be made with real tropical fruits. A soft ukulele song being played on old, tinny speakers lulled them into a false sense of uneasy calm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each takes a seat around the table, leaving one chair at the center respectfully empty for their missing host. Rumple and David take the seats on either side of the empty one, Killian and Emma choosing chairs that face each other on opposite sides of the table, Henry and Mary Margaret sitting at the end so close that she could reach out and hold her grandson’s hand. Which just might be necessary considering how anxious he seems to have grown since arriving to the empty restaurant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When Zelena gets here, let me talk,” Henry insists, scanning the room for his father and wondering when he will arrive as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, I have a few things to say first,” Killian intones dryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t about you,” Henry shoots back, annoyed. “Our goal is to persuade her to send us back to Storybrooke alive and release the town from whatever curse she has going on there. To convince her that it’s not too late to turn things around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Killian argues back. “That’s <em>your</em> goal. Mine is to get her to apologize for stabbing me. By any means necessary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a matter of life and death!” Henry shouts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So was stabbing me!” Killian yells back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, children,” Emma interjects with a pointed look at the pirate, “Maybe we should each take turns talking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe Killian should go last,” Neal mumbles under his breath as he seats himself at the empty table behind them, crossing his arms over the back of his chair. Rumple looks up, acknowledging his son with a small smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Mary Margaret says, picking up one of the decorative shells from the table. “How about whoever is holding this shell gets to speak. That’s the way we used to do peer mediation circles in my classroom, and it always worked very well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or as the only reasonable adult, maybe I should lead,” Emma groans, picking the shell out of Mary Margaret’s hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She has a point,” Neal interjects. No one hears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Except you're also the only one with no memories,” Killian reminds her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, Killian, I don’t think you were holding the seashell,” David points out in earnest support of Mary Margaret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, fuck your seashell,” Killian says, plucking it out of Emma’s hand with a cheeky grin before turning around and chucking it at the wall behind them, little shards of broken shell tinkling to the floor like glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Operation Zero,” Henry reminds everyone. “Can’t be divided, remember? She's not even here yet and we're argued. We need to get it together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a swirl of green light at the empty chair by the front of the table, a small giggle letting them know their antics are no longer private as all eyes turn to face Zelena’s grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, go on, I did really like the seashell idea,” she chuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one notices the way Henry’s eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for the final guest. Only Neal acknowledges it with a gentle sigh, “I’m right here, buddy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waiter arrives, dropping off drink orders they never put in, each one tailored perfectly to the guest it is matched to. Rumple is the first to pick up his scotch on the rocks and start sipping, quietly watching as Neal begins to pace around the table. And suddenly, a thought occurs to Rumple. Can Zelena see his son as well?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suddenly no one is very chatty?” Zelena laughs, picking up her martini glass and swirling the green olives around the center. “Come on, I thought you wanted to talk. To tell me this was all a big mistake. That you’d forgive me, even love me, if only I’d let you go back to Storybrooke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Henry finally c</span>
  <span>himes up. “That’s what we wanted to say. We don’t know you, but whatever your reasons for this curse, we want to help you get the justice you deserve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs, and at first the group thinks it is because they are letting the child speak for them, but as her eyes come to settle on Rumple they all groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe some of you don’t know me,” she chuckles. “Would you like to make the introductions, or should I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This,” Rumple says with a sigh and a vague wave of his scotch glass, “Is Zelena. Regina’s bastard sister. And my ex-student.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ex-student, current master,” Zelena chuckles, and a dagger - <em>the dagger</em> - appears in her hand, causing the table to tense. “Oh, don’t worry, I'm not going to use it. Where is the fun in that? Just proving a point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in a poof of green smoke, the dagger is gone again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what is it that you want?” David speaks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Simple. Everything my sister had,” Zelena laughs. “Originally I wanted a time curse to go back and live her life. But that was a little complicated, and unpredictable, and resulted in too many dead babies and so Rumple suggested a better plan. Storybrooke. It can be mine with just a little memory tampering, child’s magic really. And with the time spell ready to go, all I had to do to secure my legacy, was send those of you capable of stopping me - and Killian, of course - to another place and time. And that would have been that - had my dearest sister not also sent Henry back, with his memories... and yours. It’s put me in quite the bind. So, since you six-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seven!” Neal interjected loud enough that Zelena and Rumple both jumped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since you <em>six</em> are so good at making decisions for all of Storybrooke, I wanted to get your opinions on a rather tricky matter. I wanted to offer you a choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers to that,” Rumple grinned, holding his glass aloft, only to be met with angry glares from the rest of the group.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seven, actually,” Henry chimes in and Neal cheers behind him. “You promised my dad would be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweetie,” Mary Margaret says, gripping his hand. “Neal is dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So is Milah, but we all saw her,” Henry insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell him I’m here!” Neal growls, stopping his nervous pacing to lean over Rumple’s shoulder. “Tell him I’m right here, papa!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shhhh, enough of that now,” Rumple whispers quietly, but not so quiet that the whole table doesn’t turn to stare at him in confusion. “Sorry, just talking to myself. Continue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway,” Zelena says, looking away from the lunatic to her left, to face David and his side of the table. “The choice is this: I send you all back to Storybrooke. Let you live happy little lives, lives like the ones you had here. Emma, you can bring Lily. Mary Margaret, I’ll let you bring Ray. Think of how happy Ray would be, living in the twenty-first century. He’d have work to do, sure, but the three of you could stay a family. Rumple - we’ll play mind wipe with the bookish beauty again and you’ll have her back. Who else? David. You’ll be happy too, I promise. Killian - I really liked the nuthouse plan. We might try that again. Really, option A is the best option. But, it wouldn’t be a choice if I didn’t give you an option B. That one is pretty simple, too. I poof right out of this restaurant and you six spend the next week being hunted down and killed by my witches. I say week, because it won’t take them much longer than that. Now, feel free to discuss your options amongst yourselves while I drink my martini. When I’m done, we’ll decide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ll start,” Mary Margaret mumbles into her margarita, twirling the silly straw between her fingers nervously. “The downside of option A is we’re all still cursed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In option B, we’re all dead,” Emma corrects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Operation Zero,” David reminds them all, placing his palms on the table and leaning forward. “She’s trying to divide us, and we swore that wouldn’t happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhmm, I do so love a good martini,” Zelena laughed, plucking at the green olives with her teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David’s got a point,” Killian said, leaning forward and pulling out his knife, pointing it at Zelena and causing Rumple to lean back and away from the blade. “What about option C, where we kill the witch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not to interfere,” Zelena laughed. “But in option C, my witches are still hunting you. Put the knife away before I stab you with it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian stands in anger, his chair clattering backward as he attempts to grab for Zelena, who only laughs into her glass as Neal and Henry both try to restrain the pirate - Henry far more successful than his father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Operation Zero,” Henry reminds him. “Stop, she’s manipulating you, idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about option D?” Emma asks, “I take us all back to Storybrooke and we break your curse there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, really?” Zlena grins, setting her drink down and leaning forward to glare at the blonde. “Won’t you need your memories for that? Or are you going to trust your magic to just… work. You’re dealing with a time curse, honey, you could cause the apocalypse if you get it wrong. At the very least your could erase yourself from existence. I mean, I wouldn’t want to play around with a timeline I didn’t understand, that’s why I made Rumple do it, but by all means, give it a go. I’m waiting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma glares, and there is a small ringing noise as the martini glass in front of Zelena bursts, splashing vodka across the witches face. Zelena picks up a napkin, dabbing delicately so as not to smear her makeup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oops,” Emma says with a small, very unapologetic, shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witch just glares before leaning back in her seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then, it looks like I’m done with my drink. What have we decided?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret picks a shard of glass out of her drink, avoiding eye contact as she whispers. “What’s the downside to Option A?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Killian says, missing the original intent of her statement, but picking up on what Neal had been most worried about all along. “What is it you’re not telling us? Option A sounds too good to be true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, there is one little catch,” Zelena shrugs. “You’d have to give me the boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Neal loudly interjects, causing Rumple to massage at his ears while glaring at his son. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not going to let you kill Henry,” Killian whispers, and is surprised that he is the only one at the table to defend the little boy so quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say <em>kill</em>, I said<em> have</em>,” Zelena corrects. “I want everything my sister had. The includes her son. His perfect life for yours. Or you can all die together, as a family. And I must say, I’m a little disappointed. I thought I’d hear a much more lively debate. And instead the pirate -<em> the villain, the scoundrel, the cad - </em>is the only one defending him. What would Baelfire say, hmmm? I think he’d be a little disappointed in all of you. But no matter. I can kill the pirate and send you all back to Storybrooke if that’s what you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Screw this,” Neal hisses, turning to run at where his father sits and just hoping her can repeat the process. Rumple barley has time to look up from his drink before he feels something slamming against him, and then, he just feels very still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal, on the other hand feels very much full of frantic movements. Tiny, barley noticeable movements of blood coursing through veins, muscles contracting, and nerves rushing information to his brain. He feels the soft table cloth under his palms, tastes the lingering remnants of scotch on his tongue, smells the sweet perfume of the witch to his right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She can’t have Henry,” he manages to choke out, stuttering to make vocal chords he has spent three years without work for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone turns to look, Zelena's eyes widest of all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that is new,” she purrs, and suddenly there is a strong ripping sensation as green smoke twists around his father’s body - his current body. Suddenly he is being torn away from the living by putrid magic, pushed away by the soul already inside this body, and it is all he can do to choke out his last few words. “I’m B-B-Bael-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he is forced too quickly back out of the body, collapsing onto the floor, his father falling out of the seat next to him, both exhausted from the effort and completely unsure of what has happened. And in that moment, looking down at them both with distaste, Neal can hear Zelena whisper, “You’ve just doomed them all, Baelfire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before disappearing in a cloud of smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No wait, what about my dad!” Henry shouts as he lunges across the table, trying to grab her wrist, but the cuff around his pushes him away from the magic and leaves him stranded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well," Mary Margaret sighs, “I think that went about as well as we could have expected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel utterly violated,” Rumple moans from the floor. “You had no right!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suck it up,” Neal hisses next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So much for Operation Zero,” Killian grumbles as Emma reaches out to stroke his hand and he yanks it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the record,” Mary Margaret sighs, “I didn’t want to say anything, but zero is actually divisible by all numbers. You just can’t divide by it… You guys just seemed so excited about the name I didn’t want to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she trails off as four sets of angry eyes turn to glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ll get Rumple off the floor and then I guess we should all head home,” David sighs, defeated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside the restaurant, wait two women - one full of bitter anger, the other full of painful regret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian sees them first, nudging Emma as they break away from the crowd to confront them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was your dinner?” Milah asks as Killian approaches. She is leaning against a pillar, picking at her nails with a knife the way she used to back aboard his ship. And as angry as he is, as much as he remembers his promise to kill her, he knows he has fallen, yet again, too hard to ever let harm befall her. Much less at his own hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re working with Zelena? Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t owe you an explanation,” she says, turning her head away. But she’s here, and she talking to him, and so he knows she wants to give one all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s not who you think she is, Milah. Whatever she told you… whatever she’s promised you… it was a lie, love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have no idea what I’m going through,” she says holding back tears with a firm set of her jaw. He knows that look. He has seen it before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baelfire,” he whispers, reaching out to embrace her, but she only pushes him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milah, Baelfire is dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lying. He’s here. He’s in this time. She’s going to bring me to him so I can apologize for what I did all those years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he whispers, turning to head back to his new family. There was a time, long ago, when he had dreamed of Milah and her boy as his family. A time when he would have done anything, killed anyone, for the two of them. But that time has passed. “I’m sorry, but Baelfire is dead. You’d have had a better chance meeting him in The Underworld.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You're a liar!” she yells after him. “You always have been Killian Jones!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t take my word for it,” he tosses back over his shoulder as he retreats. “Ask her yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you find me?” Emma asks Lily, who hasn’t bothered to do her makeup when leaving the house for the first time in years. She knows Emma won’t care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not above following you,” Lily says with a sad smile. “I’m sorry, about the way we left things. Can we talk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma knows she should say no. She knows she should head back with the rest of her new family. Should take the paper they keep offering her and forget about her last month here with Lily. But instead, she nods, following Lily back to her car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drive a ways, halfway between Emma’s new world and her old one, sitting in the quite darkness of starlight and muffled songs on the staticky car radio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither one wants to speak first about the hurt feelings still lingering between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I should try to explain,” Lily finally offers, turning to face Emma in the passenger seat. </span>
  <span>“I love you. But… that’s dangerous. In this town, in this place… they don’t accept women like us. My life with Carl, it’s safe. Some of us have to choose between the life we want, and the life we can live with. I have to think of Starla. I have to think about what the three of us would be facing if we were to… commit to this. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to. You understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Emma doesn’t. What she understands is that she loves Lily. And that she will not lose someone else that she loves. Not again. Not after… that sinking feeling takes ahold of her stomach again and she knows it is tied to those people, that town, the life she can't remember… and while that train of thought seems too painful to ride out, she has another one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if we went somewhere were you didn't have to choose? Away from here? Away from Carl? Somewhere safe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily chuckles through her tears. “And where is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Emma offers. “But I’m pretty sure it’s where I came from. I will protect you and Starla. I promise you that, if you can trust me, I can keep you safe. Do you trust me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lord help me, I do,” Lily laughs. “But we have to be carful. Carl’s bother, he’s a state trooper, and if he thinks I’m going to run… Emma we can’t tell anyone!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as Lily leans in to kiss her, the two of them getting lost in each other, they are too distracted to notice that Lily is not the only one capable of following Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carl lights a cigarette a couple feet down the road, glaring at what is happening in his station wagon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Archie, as it turns out, had a very good reason for not rejoining them at dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raced back up the stairs, looking for his keys, which he could not believe he had just left on the counter - nerves causing him to do stupid things. It was a good thing he remembered, if he hadn’t then just anyone could have gotten into the apartment, gotten close to hurting him and his friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as he enters the apartment - determined to grab his keys and go - he sees something strange.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pongo?” He asks, approaching the Dalmatian sitting in the middle of the kitchen, its head turned slightly to face him. He is so focused on recognizing the dog, he doesn’t hear the creak of the bedroom door as it opens just slightly. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s wrong, he realizes as another Dalmatian approaches him from behind, is that it is not Pongo. But as he makes a mad dash for the front door, a gentle, gloved hand stops him with a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, now, little cricket, Where do you think you’re going?” an overstated drawl asks as another set of hands drags him back toward his living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it is in his living room where David and Killian find him a couple hours later, surrounded by broken furniture, signs of a struggle, and a lot of blood. Henry is in the kitchen, making a last minute supper to replace the one the three of them never got, Rumple and Mary Margaret having both returned to their respective homes to gather their things and their thoughts. No one is feeling particularly confident about their chances, and though they won’t admit it to each other, each one thinks about the idea of settling back into these lives they have built and hoping for the best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is, until David and Killian stumble into the destroyed living room, Archie laying bloody and broken at the center of it. They don’t need a note to know who is responsible, their sole concern being to get Henry away from the mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian shrugged out of his coat, using it to quickly cover as much of Henry’s field of vision as possible while David tries to drag him back outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is happening?” Henry insists, the carton of milk in his hands clattering to the floor, but as he struggles out of their grip, he sees past Killian’s coat to the horror in the living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he had wanted was to talk to Zelena. And this is how that plan had always been fated to end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he sinks to his knees, he whispers to the witch he hopes is listening, “You take my family home and you can have me. This has to stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, there is a little glass crystal in front of the three of them, filled with a swirling green smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have ninety minutes to gather the rest of your family and send them back to show me you mean it. Breaking the glass will do the trick. My mercy expires when that time runs out,” comes a voice as clear as the crystal and as thick as the smoke, in response to his desperate plea.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. The Death March</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rumple is trying very hard not to fall asleep. He knows that he is supposed to be gathering his things to return to the others, but he is exhausted, and more than anything, he wants to keep Neal from doing something insanely stupid - as Neal was prone to do in these situations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate to remind you of the last time you were this desperate to get back to your family,” he mumbles from where he sits in his arm chair, Neal grinning at him - waiting patiently- across the room, “But I fear this new plan of yours will end similar to the last. And since it is my body you will be wearing this time, I’m inclined to prevent any mishaps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, I’ll wait. You’re going to have to fall asleep eventually. And when you do... sweet dreams,” Neal says, punctuating his last remark with a wink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think you’re more stubborn then me, son. I assure you, you’re not,” Rumple grimaces, but his chair is starting to feel incredibly comfortable. And it feels like each time he closes his eyes, they stay shut just a little longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And each time he opens them again, Neal is just a little closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate your face,” Rumple groans through his sleep-deprived state.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should, it’s your face,” Neal growls back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, son, don’t do this to us,” Rumple begs. And if he’s not mistaken Neal begins to hum a lullaby. “I’m not joking, Bae, things are sort of a mess right now and I just need a bit of sleep so I can sort them all out. Really. Just let me rest and then I’ll come up with a better plan that doesn’t involve you wearing me like a suit of armor as you march off to fight Zelena to the death. <em>Your</em> death, by the way. And don’t roll your eyes at me like that. She’s killed you once, she will do it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa, remember when you said I would chose Emma and Henry over everyone else in Storybrooke. And I said ‘I wouldn’t’. You might be shocked to hear this, but I was lying,” Neal offers, setting his hand lightly on his father’s shoulder, only to have him flinch away. “I understand why this thing with Belle is so hard, watching her move on, deciding to have a life without you. And there’s nothing you can do about it. I understand because that’s how I feel every day. Every day I watch the people I love forget me just a little more. All I do is try to talk you into not doing something stupid or reckless, and over and over again you just don’t listen. So I get it… really, I do… but I’m going to help my family. With or without your help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry son. I know these last three years haven’t been easy on you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want to make it up to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“NO!” Rumple insists. “There is nothing you can do that I can’t!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can make Emma get her memories back,” Neal whispers. “She’ll listen to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one listens to you,” Rumple sighed. “Maybe if I had... maybe we wouldn’t be here now - we’d be off living our non-magical life together without all this Storybrooke crap and just you and me and... fine. Fine. But I have a few conditions I want met.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carl smiles as Lily clears the table, Emma and Starla playing in the living room. They had agreed nothing would change until it was time for them to rejoin Emma’s family. Nothing would change and Carl would never know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Carl already did know, and he wasn’t about to let this blonde witch who just fell into their lives oh so conveniently a month ago tear apart his life and his family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, Starla has a check up in town today,” Lily begins, setting a fresh mug of coffee in front of her husband. “Emma and I will be gone for-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since when does Emma come with you for Starla’s checkups?” Carl asks, shooting a hateful glare across the room to where Emma is playing dolls with the little girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were going to go to the park after,” Lily answers coolly. “I might pick up the groceries and need Emma to watch her. You know how Starla can be in the store sometimes, it’s overwhelming for her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” Carl replies, “I need Emma to give me a ride up to Jim Garvey’s ranch today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think I might need her help a little more-” Lily tries to object, but Carl isn’t having any of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said I need her. And since I’m the one signing her paychecks, I think she’ll be driving me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma looks up to where Lily has frozen in fear by the steel in Carl’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, I don’t mind driving Carl,” she assures them both with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turns out, Carl is the one to drive. Emma tucked silently away into the passenger seat until they roll quietly up the gravel drive of Mr. Garvey’s ranch. It is uncomfortable as he steps out of the car, slamming the driver’s door a little too hard as he makes his way over to the cow pasture. Emma feels, in his eyes, she is just as doomed as one of the gentle bovine. And she feels just as trapped - as penned in - as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she steps out of the car to follow, knowing that is what he wants. Wondering how he knows. But there is no doubt about it. He knows about her and Lily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma has never been one to back down from a fight, to bow and beg, even when she probably should. And so each of her steps are deliberate, leaving firm bootprints in the muck of the pasture as she approaches him, leaning on the fence, and speaks first. “Want to tell me why we’re really here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carl takes a deep breath, turning to face her with a cold sort of anger. “You ever heard of hoof-and-mouth disease?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And no, Emma can’t say that she has as she shakes her head, keeping a safe distance between the two in case she needs to run. The power, the small feeling that had shattered glass last night, pooling eagerly in her chest like a loaded gun with the safety off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My pop worked a ranch in California,” Carl continues, looking back out at the animals with the same calm disdain he had for Emma. “Around 1924 they had an outbreak. They had to slaughter over 100,000 animals. It devastated the whole area. Pop lost his job - lots of people did. The point is, they didn’t catch the sick cow in time, so the disease spread like a wildfire. I plan to fight this disease, before it spreads, Emma. Before it gets out of hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile, almost soft this time, sends shivers down Emma’s spine as he turns back to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who we are, it’s not a disease, Carl,” Emma insists firmly. She knows he has brought her here to feel helpless. To feel afraid. But Emma isn’t. Not for one second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Call it what you want, “ Carl sighs, “But it ain’t natural. And it ain’t happening under my roof. Not with my wife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here he begins to take slow, measured steps toward her, and Emma braces herself, strengthening her spine so that she is taller, more fearless in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not scared of you,” she warns him, and there is enough iron in her voice that he pauses at a decent distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t say you were,” he whispers, and if she isn’t mistaken, she thinks she might here a little fear at the edge of his voice. She’s pushed him to desperation though, and desperate men do desperate things. “But this isn’t about you, Emma. It’s about Starla. This situation, it’s not good for her. I’ve been thinkin’ of sending her off for some time. To a facility better equipped to handle her type. It might be good for her to get some special attention. Course… maybe I wouldn’t have to. If you left. Starla could go back to spending time with her mommy and daddy like she should. Now, me and Jim Garvey are going to have us a drink. You take the car back and I’ll call a cab later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tosses her the keys, turning to finish the slow walk past the pasture and up the driveway. He is almost out of Emma’s sight, the little metal keys growing warm in her hands, when he turns back and casually tosses over his shoulder, “Oh, and Emma? I do expect you to be packed up and gone by the time I get back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David, who lost a quick game of rock-paper-scissors, covers Archie with a sheet while Killian sits outside in the hall comforting Henry. A choice has been made, and while neither one is happy about it, Henry has sworn them both to his secret aide. It’s better this way, they both agree, secretly, with Henry. No one else needs to end up dead. David thinks of how much it would hurt if it was Mary Margaret or their son under that sheet. Killian thinks about how much he likes his blood inside of his body where it belongs. Henry thinks about Regina, hoping he is making the right choice for himself and his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was a good guy, and he deserved better than this,” Killian mumbles, staring off into space. They were all good guys, if it should be anyone under that sheet it should be the former villain who almost got them all killed by trusting a past lover over the heroes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David appears again in the doorway, his knees and shirt cuffs covered in rusty smudges that Henry tries not to notice as he ushers the other two back in. They’ve wasted enough time trying to make sense of it. It’s time to gather the family. To head back to Storybrooke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry stands at the doorway between the kitchen and living room, looking lost as he stares at the sheet-covered body, clutching the little glass crystal just a bit tighter in his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish those witches would come back,” Killian whispers, getting lost in the doorway as well. “You don’t have to do this, Henry. We can fight them here. We can find our own way back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s actually sort of a comforting sentiment. Not the kind of thing Emma or Mary Margaret would have approved of, but it reminds him of Regina and that’s the strength he needs right now. It’s time to gather his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We gotta go,” he whispers. “We have to get the others. David, you get Mary Margaret and the baby. Killian - get Rumple. I’ve got Emma. We meet back in the ally where we all arrived. Let’s sync our watches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David agrees without thinking, twisting at the dial on the timepiece around his wrist. But Killian looks less enthusiastic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is to say we can trust her, Henry? Who is to say everything goes back to normal once we break that crystal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s better than ending up like Archie, we have to have faith that this plan will be better!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if it’s not? What if the ‘hero’ way doesn’t work out this time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you worried you’ve backed the wrong horse?” David asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll find out,” Henry mumbles, putting on his coat. “Either way, this is a chance to get home, and it’s not perfect, but we’re taking it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian pauses, biting his lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to say goodbye to Milah first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milah doesn’t give a shit about you!” Henry snaps, anger boiling over. “Milah has never cared about you or anyone else but herself! We’ve done nothing but try and take care of you, and you’ve dragged your feet the entire time! Milah was using you to get to me, and yet you’re going to risk all of our chances at survival, just to say goodbye to her? She could already be back in The Underworld for all we know! Now buck up and go find my grandfather!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns on his heel, leaving Killian and David staring dumbfounded at the space where he used to be, shocked at the anger and frustration in one tiny, little voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David, I have to,” Killian says shaking his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David sighs, heavily patting Killian’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get it.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Gathering</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I want to talk about Baelfire!” Milah insists as she bursts into Zelena’s room, noticing that the gaudy green bauble the witch normally wears around her neck is missing. Panic surges through her. “You can’t send them back until you’ve followed through with your end of the bargain!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t or shouldn’t, dear? I’m not your ex-husband, my deals aren’t binding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You promised me I’d get to see my son!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promised a lot of people a lot of things. But times change, and now I’ve promised Henry a one-way ticket back for his family. Of course…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is is?” Milah spit, anger boiling over. Too afraid to accuse Zelena of what Killian had said back at the restaurant. Too afraid to hear that he hadn’t been lying to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s pretty simple. If they don’t all gather, sans the married bookworm and the squished cricket, by the time their clock runs out… poof goes their little ticket home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come now, dear, isn’t your family supposed to be good with loopholes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret is so shocked to see David already in her kitchen when she arrives home form the grocery store that she almost drops the bag of eggs, clutching just a little tighter to her son on her other hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going home,” he says, before she can ask any questions, checking his watch quickly. “But we leave in forty-two minutes or we don’t leave at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stutters, unable to form words as he takes the bags out of her arms; she is still clinging too tightly to the baby for him to help her sit down and handle the shock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snow, I know it’s a lot to process. And I know it’s not a lot of time to get back to the group-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To decide, you mean,” she insists, looking up at him with those big, round eyes, firm even in her fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is there to decide? If we leave right now we go back to Storybrooke. We can worry about breaking the curse there,<em> as a family</em>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David, if I go back, I lose my memories again. I go back to a life I <em>didn’t</em> choose. But I<em> chose</em> this one. I <em>chose</em> Ray. Maybe, if my choices are cursed in Storybrooke or free in Dallas, maybe… maybe I want to stay in Dallas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But we’d be together,” he insists softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you promise me that, Charming?” she asks quietly, brushing her hand softly against his cheek. “Can you promise me that if we go back, I’ll remember who you are? I’ll be with you, and Emma, and our family? Because if you can promise me that, then I’ll go. But I don’t think you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I can’t promise you that. But I can promise you that we will always find a way to each other. We always have before, and we always will again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless we’re separated by decades, not distances,” she whispers. “David, I can <em>not</em> keep starting over. David jr. can’t keep starting over. I don’t want his life to be like Emma’s - always alone, never remembering. Here in Dallas he can have a real, honest childhood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Snow,” he whispers, sensing her panic rising. “We don’t belong here. We have to go back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret turns to look out the window, to the little street where the neighborhood children play. Where she has always envisioned her son growing up. Gauzy curtains blowing against jam jars and potted plants that she and Ray have picked out one by one. Filling their house with laughter and love. And maybe it’s not True Love, like what she and David have, but it’s normal love. It’s stable love. It’s what she wants for her son.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret,” David insists, turning her to face him. “We’ve never had the most normal of lives together. But we’re special. We’re destined for great things. And good or bad, like it or not, that means we don’t get to live normal lives. Here, or anywhere, for that matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not fair,” she moans rocking her son slightly as he tugs at her hair in confused distraction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. But we’re heroes. And we have to do the right thing. Not the easy thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns to him, swallowing hard. “Is this the <em>right</em> thing, David? Don’t lie to me, however you plan on getting us back, is it the <em>right</em> thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And David hesitates. As she suspected. It’s not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret, this is our best trait as a family-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Recklessness?” she interrupts, anger filling her chest. She knows what he plans to do, and she won’t be a part of it. For Henry’s sake. For little David's too, she tells herself, ignoring the part of her that knows this is actually for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hope,” David sighs, pulling her into a hug. And they are so lost in each other, so lost in the overwhelming feeling of once again starting over - having their happy ending ripped away from them before they ever get to enjoy it - that they do not here the front door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baby? What’s wrong?” Ray asks as she and David pull away from each other. And there is hurt in his eyes - he knows who that man is - but the tears pouring down his wife’s face as she rocks her child on her hip are a much more pressing concern to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David, we need a minute alone,” Mary Margaret whispers. “I’ll catch up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forty-two minutes,” he reminds her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wastes no time, once David has left, filling Ray in on what is happening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a lot,” he mumbles, sinking down into the chair across from her. “And it’s not a lot of time to think about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which perfectly sums up how Mary Margaret is feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” she says, reaching for his hand. “And I don’t know what we’re going back to. But if I asked… would you come with us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you asking me to leave Dallas? To leave the movement? My life is here, Mary Margaret. I have so much work to do here. I just can’t leave it behind. My part of the fight is right here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods. She knows. But she had hoped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to forget you,” she whispers as she takes his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll remember for the both of us,” he promises, knowing her mind is made up. “I’ll take my year with you over a lifetime with anyone else. You hear me? I’m still the luckiest man I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she is ready to go. She is ready to meet David and the others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just then, there is a knocking at the door. And before she can rise to answer it, the hinges creak and crack, the wood shattering inward to reveal two very angry witches - one with knives glinting from her fingertips, the other with hands outstretched, purple smoke pouring forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, rule number one - no physical changes! No hair cuts, no tattoos, no piercings, no matter how funny you think it’s going to be later,” Rumple warns his son who is nodding a little too eagerly to be paying attention. "Second rule, when you see Emma again, I know you’re going to be tempted to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ew, papa, no!” Neal flinches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just saying, nothing inappropriate. And finally, no more alcohol. That one is really for both of us. Trust me on that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got it,” Neal said with another enthusiastic nod. “Thank you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever," Rumple says with a shrug and a shiver, “Just get your business over with quickly and you won’t have to owe me for the rest of your afterlife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal chuckles, trying to remember how he had done it before, slowly reaching out and sinking, ever so softly, into the mind and body of his father. It is an uncomfortable sensation at first, as if his skin is full to bursting, his chest aching as muscles contract, but slowly he feels his father start to make room, like a snake coiling inside a boot - relinquishing control to his son.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s wonderful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last two times had been a struggle - a battle - but now Neal just feels alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And again, it’s wonderful!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He throws open the glass doors that lead from his father’s chambers to the private gardens, feeling the breeze brush against the hairs on his arms, the scent of lavender wafting around him like an enticing nymph gesturing for him to follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he knows his father said make it quick, but he is alive, his heart thudding in his chest, lungs expanding with fresh, crisp air and for a moment, he is distracted. He’ll get to Emma, of course he will. But is it really an emergency that he leaves right this second?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With equal parts caution and joy he steps out through the open doors, forgetting completely to shut them behind him as he kicks off his father’s shoes and steps onto the path, feeling the soft caress of grass, the wet squish of mud between his toes. And it is amazing!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Focus,” he hears his father hiss inside his head, but he isn’t listening as he begins to wander through the garden, aimlessly, as if in a trance, letting all the new scents and sensations overwhelm him. It’s been three years since he’s been able to smell anything - feel anything except a dull pressure when interacting with the living world, and now he is experiencing everything all at once and it is too amazing to not fill every firing synapse of his brain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gate squeaks as he presses it open, a much lighter touch than would be required as a ghost. He reaches up and plucks an orange from one of the overflowing trees, eager to try out that other, long forgotten sense, tearing into it with the enthusiasm of someone who has never paused to peel something so delicate before. The sunshine feels brighter as he continues through the garden, his fingers sticky from the fruit’s juices as he brings it’s center to his lips and takes a healthy bite, feeling the pulp squish against his teeth. His father is probably cringing from how undignified he looks, barefoot and eating an orange like an animal, but Neal couldn’t care less.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The juice is incredibly bitter. This was a mistake. A wonderful, amazing, overwhelming mistake, he thinks, as he tosses the remnants of the mangled fruit to the ground and continues on his walk, toes curling in the mud with each step as he thinks that this immense rush of experiencing is better than any high he’s ever had. He is alive, truly and completely, in a way that he doubted he had ever felt the world long before his death in the woods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His death in the woods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Focus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he collapses, overwhelmed into the soft grass behind him, breathing deeply, feeling his chest expand and contract with each movement. And he knows that if they all go back to Storybrooke, if life resumes exactly the way it was, he’ll never feel this way again. The afterlife might be better, but it is unknown, and for the first time since Neverland, Neal is afraid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly Rumple is, too. Neal can feel his father struggling to reemerge, and he hasn’t even left the compound yet. What the hell?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Daddy Dark One, or whatever it is they call you here,” he hears a gruff voice approaching from the other side of the gardens, a black stain on the soft pastel world his father has built. “Care to lend me a minute of your very busy time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian!” Neal gasps. And he can honestly say that there has never been a moment of his life where he has been more excited to see the pirate, who has come to a stop standing over where he is laying in the grass. Killian will know how to get him to Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pirate lends him his good hand, pulling Neal to his feet and beginning a brisk walk back across the compound. “Come on, old man, we’ve got places to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal is startled by the vice-like grip on his shoulder, but a little relieved to be speaking to someone besides his father for the first time in a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going?” he asks, stumbling around a few sharp rocks in the grass, whishing Killian had given him a few second to put his shoes on first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back to Storybrooke,” Killian tosses with a causal smile over his shoulder as he continues to half-drag Neal toward the front of the compound where the stolen car he was driving the last time Neal had seen the pirate was parked at an incredibly crooked angle on the front lawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal chuckles. “Not that it’s not fantastic to talk to you, Killian, but… how?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian pauses, wrinkling his brow. “Are you on something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Uh, no. I feel like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian pauses their hurried pace in confusion. “Never thought I’d see the day the dignified Dark One is tripping ballocks at four in the afternoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not The Dark One,” Neal hurries to explain, but that seems to only confuse Killian further. “I’m Neal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was supposed to be a dramatic announcement. He was completely prepared for Killian to be shocked. Amazed. Not doubled over with laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, normally I’d be all for whatever drug-induced grieving this is, but we don’t have time for this,” he manages to choke out through bouts of laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can prove it,” Neal insists. “Ask me something only Neal would know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian eyes his car, and then with a sigh decides to indulge. “Okay, when you were little, I taught you how to tie a very specific type of knot-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A reef knot!” Neal interjected, expecting a little more surprise from the pirate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Killian’s eyes only squinted with distrust. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I’d burned my hand on one of the cannons and that was one of the best ways to tie a bandage so it lays flat. Well, flat enough... mine weren't very good back then,” Neal said, watching the pirate's face melt from distrust to an emotion so raw he couldn’t quite name it. An emotion that Neal couldn’t recognize because the only time he’d ever come across it was when it was displayed on his own face. When he’d learned about Henry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit!” Killian whispered, taking his hands away from his mouth and embracing Neal so hard he thought his father’s ribs in this borrowed body might crack. “Baelfire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you crying?” Neal laughed, aware that he might have been too. Aware that he had probably needed a hug for a while now, relieved that he could play it off as the other man’s weakness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your father… why didn’t he tell us..”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s a liar?” Neal offered. But the question was a real one, one Neal had been wondering himself. His best guess was his dad thought he was a trap, a figment of his imagination. But no one ever really knew what Rumple was up to, even his son. “But guess what? I can possess him now, and it’s fuckin’ awesome!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fantastic!” Killian laughed, letting go of Neal as he began to rush him back to the car. “You can tell me all about it on the way back to 2014, okay? Cause we have to go!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about my dad’s cult? We can’t just leave them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Killian interjects, cutting him off quickly. “You stay right there in that body. Don’t let your dad back out for a second. We need someone responsible at the wheel, Baelfire, and I can trust that you’ll come through for your family. I can’t trust your father to do the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fair point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Neal waves to them as they drive away, back to Archie’s old apartment, trying to shout as much encouraging wisdom as he can as they all gather to wave him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they reach the apartment, Killian mumbles, “I think we’re early.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it certainly looks that way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one else is gathered in the alley around back yet, and so with a small iota of doubt, Killian presses the keys into Neal’s palm and whispers, "I’ll be back in thirty minutes, there’s just something I need to do real quick. Do not wander off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal nods solemnly as he feels his father’s spirit begin to squirm and twist against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma has a tough decision to make.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She weighs the pros and cons on her drive home, afraid of what it says about her that this decision is difficult. She wants what is best for Lily and for Starla; she knows the two of them being together is far more important than her and whatever it is she wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she loathes the idea of leaving them trapped with Carl as well. She loves how she has watched Lily grow so much over the last month, Starla too, and she hates the thought of everything going back to normal for one man while the three of them suffer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she worries, can she really keep Lily and her daughter safe if they choose to run?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels like she is going to vomit as she turns her car off the sideroad, almost colliding with another that is taking the same turn, the opposite direction, just a little too wide. As if its driver has no clue what they are doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as the two cars pass, Emma’s eyes grow wide as she sees the little boy who claims to be her son sitting in the driver seat, barley tall enough to grip the wheel. And his eyes are wide with wonder too as he slams on the breaks and starts to get out in the middle of the road.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Emma guesses she has to stop, because she can’t just leave him there in the road like that. He is obviously looking for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did you get the car, kid?” she asks, placing her hands on her hips as he rushes across the road to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a second generation car thief,” he intones dryly. “Both my parents were car thieves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looking for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Care to be more specific?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just need you to come with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this another trick. Are you going to try and hand me that paper again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I just need you to come with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was a lie if she’d ever heard one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“2014.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She let out a bark of a laugh. But the more she thought about it, it wasn’t any more ridiculous than magic. Or evil witches. And wherever this kid wanted to take her… she doubted Carl would be able to get there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about my friends?” she asks nervously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They belong in this timeline,” the boy says with sadness in his eyes. There is something he still isn’t telling her. Something she is glad she doesn’t know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s not what the witch said. I heard her myself. She said I could bring Lily and Starla with me. If you want me to come with you, I bring them too. That’s nonnegotiable. Lily deserves a life where she doesn’t have to pretend to be someone she’s not. And Starla? If you’re really taking us to the future than I have to believe things are better there for her. That we can get her the help she needs without having to separate her from her mother. Without having to send her to and institution!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She watches the little boy look at his watch in desperation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, if we pull them out of this timeline it could change things in the future!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A mom and her eight-year-old daughter are not going to screw with your damn timeline!” Emma shouts, stamping her foot. “They are insignificant!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one is insignificant,” Henry whispers. “You taught me that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “You want me to go; that’s my condition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know if it will work,” he admits sadly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me try. Let me try and I’ll take your damn paper. Okay? It’s either that or I’m not coming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry sighs, but he knows he has lost this one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The alley by Archie’s. Don’t be late - you’ve got thirty minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both car doors slam as they speed off in opposite directions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dirt in the empty lot behind Archie’s is dry, the Texas air hot on Killian’s skin. He has shed his leather jacket, unbuttoned and slithered out of his heavy shirt, working to dig as fast as he can, sweat causing his hair to stick to his forehead as his inner villain asks him yet again why he bothers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it was the right thing to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it was what a hero would do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes another shovel of dirt out of the ground and tosses it over his shoulder, his arm aching as he braces the end of the shovel against his shoulder and uses his foot to press the metal blade into the ground. This would go a lot faster with two hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears a whistle, a catcall straight out of a cartoon, and turns to look over his shoulder at the woman ogling him from the side of the road. Her grin is softer than he remembers it, nervous almost, as she watches him work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh good,” he mumbles sarcastically. “It’s you and your stupid face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to appear annoyed, bothered even. But the truth is, he really doesn’t need this distraction. He just wants to finish burying Archie and get back to where he left… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve picked an odd time to take up gardening, Captain,” she chuckles, approaching the edge of the hole he’s been working on for a few minutes, his watch ticking insistently next to his feet, letting him know exactly when he needs to be back. “Can I ask you something? The truth? Did you mean what you said about my son?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Killian pauses. Because he’s not so sure anymore. He just spoke to Baelfire this morning. So how can he be truly dead?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pause is long enough though that something shifts in Milah. She reads his discomfort and seems to close off whatever vulnerable side she had been displaying when she first arrived. Her eyes travel over him now, cold and calculating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be honest with me, Killian, is there even a chance I’ll get to speak to my son here in Dallas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now my turn,” he says, setting the shovel aside for a moment. “Be honest with me, did you ever really love me - this go around - or were you just using me? Just lying to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t lie,” Milah says, but there is something off about her tone, and Killian suspects she is lying now. “Can you just put the shovel down for a moment so that we can actually talk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have somewhere to be. And we don’t need to talk. I already have all the answers I need. So do you, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods. That part is at least true. So were her feelings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do love you,” she assures him. “I always have, Killian. After centuries, you have to know that. I was only lying about what I remembered to protect you. But I wasn’t lying about how I felt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s enough to get him to pause in his shoveling. To stop and look at her long and hard. At those long legs, that seemed to go on for days, the curve of her neck graceful and strong, chocolate curls that tumbled down her spine like a waterfall over deadly rocks. The same chocolate curls that her son had inherited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her son, who was waiting for him - counting on him - back at the alley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know how hard it is to trust people, when no one trusts you? Milah, I let your loss turn me into a monster, motivated by revenge, and it derailed my entire life. Do you know how hard it is for me, to try and be the better man here? To do what’s right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, stepping into the hole he has been digging and biting at her lip. She is too vulnerable, and Killian the villain wouldn’t have believed it for a second. Killian the hero wants to save her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why would you do this to me?” he asks, looking for an honest answer in her eyes. She has been his everything for centuries. His sole thought as the decades slowly ticked away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until three years ago, when he met Emma Swan and her little boy and he began the cycle all over again. And now, here Milah was, trying to drag him back down, and he knows that the woman she used to be wouldn’t have done that. Knows that the woman she used to be had loved him fiercely. So Killian needed to know. Why would she manipulate him now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I miss my son,” she whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you what,” Killian begins as he braces the shovel and starts to dig again. “I’m going to finish digging this hole for Archie, go back to Storybrooke, and forget we ever met. And you can keep chasing false promises the witch gives you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, Archie died?” Milah asks, and he can see a faint flicker of empathy as she steps back out of the hole, making her way over to where the body lies covered with a sheet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, your bitchy witchy friends got him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Milah mumbles under her breath, pulling a flask out of the back pocket of her jeans. “I liked that little bug.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She unscrews the top, taking a sniff of what is probably rum inside, while Killian continues to dump dirt into piles at the edge of his hole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here’s to Archie, I guess. I’ll miss the way he rambled. And I’ll miss sharing his spare bedroom with you,” she says, holding the flask high before taking a sip. He pauses to watch her, her cheeks swollen with alcohol as she holds the flask out to him. And Killian might be turning over a new leaf, but he has never in his life turned down rum. He takes it, downing everything that is inside before tossing the empty flask to the side, preparing to say something snippy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there is a ringing in his ears. And his jaw feels heavy. And he can’t quite form words in his head, much less with his tongue. And as his vision begins to fade from color to solid black, he thinks he sees Milah spit out her mouthful of rum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground rises up to meet him as he manages to mangle a few swears, realizing too late that he’s once again let his brilliant baby get the better of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me,” he moans as the world spins and his vision goes black completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe later,” she chuckles, grabbing him by the feet and beginning to drag him out of his hole and away from his approaching deadline.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. An Eye For An Eye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Neal is incredibly uncomfortable as he sits in the alley, waiting for the others to return. He feels incredibly sick, his father churning up quite a bit of nausea as he fights for his spot in control back. And though none of the sensations are physical, it is like fingernails digging into his shoulders, his wrists, trying to tug him - wrench him, throw him, expel him - back into his ghostly form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out!” his father hisses into his mind, the sharp headache of someone pressing thumbs rather hard into Neal’s eye sockets taking over as he tries to ignore the pain, pushes back with his mind, intent on staying right here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no denying that Rumple doesn’t want to be here. That he doesn’t want to go back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because if they go back, Neal is dead again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Neal isn’t sure if it’s that thought - or his father’s spiritual abuse - that has him feeling so sick to his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Begin alive was fun when it was all pleasant smells and soft sensations, but now he feels like he is going to hurl and he’d really rather not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry and David arrive quickly, both rounding the corner in opposite directions and skidding to a halt to stop from colliding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is everyone?” David asks, confused, looking around the alley for their missing family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annoyed, Henry grips the glass crystal tighter in his fist. He can’t smash it until everyone is here… and everyone is not here. “It looks like we’re the first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We made it, too,” Neal mumbles from the spot where he is propped against the back wall, clutching at his stomach, that sick queasiness twisting and tugging at everything that is him. It would appear, if his father couldn’t push him out with force, he had another idea for how to expel Neal…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean <em>we</em>?” Henry asks, looking curiously at his grandfather, who looks so ill the little boy is too afraid to approach him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Neal never gets a chance to answer, because Rumple is rushing over toward the dumpster at the edge of the alley and retching the contents of his stomach out so violently that Neal is expelled as well, thrown against the back wall, scrambling to avoid flying through the bricks now that he is no longer corporeal and avoiding any additional sight of his father’s sickness. Well, he got them here at least, and that wasn’t nothing…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe this,” David groans, his eyes locked on the ill Dark One at the edge of the alley. “I mean, he showed up, but everyone else decided to dawdle?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have eight minutes,” Henry mumbles, checking his watch in annoyance. “We can give them eight more minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” David insists. “Either we all go, or no one does!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We might not get to make that call,” Henry warns him. “Where is everyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the time ticks insistently by, until only sixty seconds remain on the two synchronized watches and David brings his fist down so hard on the lid of the nearby dumpster that it rattles. Rumple, who is now curled up in a little ball on the sidewalk, the most undignified anyone has ever seen him, flinches away from the noise and glares angrily at what appears to be an empty space to everyone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had no right,” he hisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t regret it,” Neal answers back with a shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is my body!” his father insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No regrets,” Neal reiterates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great, so The Dark One has finally lost it,” David bemoans, checking his watch one more time as Henry nervously paces, gripping the crystal so tightly in his hand that were a reasonable adult nearby, they might worry it would shatter and cut him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a simple task. Simple!” He shouts. “I didn’t ask much. Just to be here. We’ve done worse with a lot more stacked against us! No one had to fight a giant sea monster. No. Raise an army to fight an epic battle? No! Just. Be. Here. We were so close.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe this,” David moans as he watches the last few seconds tick away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a soft popping noise, the crystal in Henry’s hand exploding into sand, the green smoke inside twisting and spiraling upward as if being sucked through a drain. And just like that their chances to get back to Storybrooke are gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She handed this to us on a silver platter,” Henry exclaims. “And we wasted it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you lament this tragedy a little softer, my head is killing me,” Rumple mumbles from the edge of the alley, finally composing himself to wipe at the corners of his mouth with the handkerchief from his suit pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal is the only one who thinks to ask, “Where is everybody?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even if he had the voice of a living person, it would have gone unnoticed. Because just like a few days ago, there is a humming energy, like charged static that goes rippling through the alleyway, stronger than the last time, knocking everyone off their feet as a high pitched whine grows louder and Henry’s leather cuff begins to sting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An abundance of magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma is in trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There isn’t any time for Mary Margaret to get herself together before the thick cloud of purple smoke is wrapping around her throat, choking her, filling her lungs like water as her chest starts to burn with the effort of gasping for air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ray is at her side in a moment, concerned with her well being as she tries her best to scramble out of the little entry hall on her hands and knees, heading for the living room. In a panic he picks up a chair, using it to force back the witch with the knives, the only one who seems capable of attacking - the other witch has her eyes closed in concentration, every bit of effort going into that thick acridic smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chair smashes down on Cruella’s shoulders, sending her stumbling back into Maleficent and breaking the caster’s concentration long enough that Mary Margaret is able to gulp down enough oxygen to keep from going woozy, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal of a fire-poker just as she feels the socreress's hands wrap around her ankle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ray is still grappling with Cruella, surprisingly strong for such a skinny woman, her knives forgotten and embedded into the smashed chair. They trade blows for blows, Cruella unphased by Mary Margaret’s pleas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop, he has nothing to do with this!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he chose her, and he stayed by her, and so unfortunately, in the eyes of the witches, he does have something to do with this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he is losing. Cruella brings her knee up into his gut, causing him to fold over, bringing her elbow down just as hard in the center of his back as he grunts an acknowledgment of the pain, collapsing to his knees a few feet away from his wife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Desperate, Mary Margaret swings the fire-poker in her grip, as hard as she can from her spot on the floor, connecting with Maleficent's throat. Now it is her turn to gasp for air as she let’s go of Mary Margaret’s ankle and takes a few steps back. But a few is all Snow White needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Maleficent brings a gloved hand up to inspect the cut, now dripping blood down her jaw and onto the front carpet, Mary Margaret is back on her feet and running full speed at the dragoness, iron poker raised like a bat and ready to do some damage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Maleficent, also a quick thinker and a warrior, reaches to the floor and scoops up one of Cruella’s fallen knives. She aims, deadly and true, letting it fly free of her grip with a flick of her wrist in Mary Margaret’s direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distracted by her friend’s injury, Cruella turns to see if she needs help, and that gives Ray the moment he needs to wrench one of her knives free from the underside of the ruined chair, picking it up and jamming it as hard as he can into the woman’s thigh, blood oozing quickly from the wound and dripping down her leg and his arm alike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hisses in anger, turning and wrapping her arms around his throat, choking the air out of him. But she is unsteady, unable to support her weight on her wounded leg, and so he tosses her off him, and backward toward the fray in the living room. Tosses her right between Maleficent and Mary Margaret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is too late, the knife has already left Maleficent’s hand - a straight path for Snow White’s heart - suddenly obstructed by another woman. With a sick, squishy thud, the knife embeds itself right into Cruella’s chest. She is dead before there is even time for her to fall to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maleficent stands, stunned over her fallen comrade, shock and horror blooming across her perfect complexion as Mary Margaret and Ray scramble to each other, checking to make sure the other is alright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they hear the last witch leave, in a whirlwind of smoke and emotions they couldn’t understand, both eyes travel to the clock and they realize it is too late. Mary Margaret has already missed her window of time to return to Storybrooke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Lily gets home, Emma already has their bags packed to the best of her abilities. She’s never been much of a packer, but as far as she is concerned, they aren’t going to need much. She doesn’t even really know if they’ll be able to take anything with them. Just each other and that’s what counts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on?” Lily asks as Starla runs over to silently inspect the bags Emma has waiting in the living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re leaving,” Emma informs her. But while Starla looks thrilled, Lily just looks confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going?” Lily asks, approaching Emma the way you might a ticking time bomb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A better place,” Emma assures her. “I can’t explain right now, but I promise, you’ll see when we get there that it’s better. For all of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about…” Lily begins, but trails off again as her eyes travel the house. What about her husband?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s staying here,” Emma says matter-of-factly. She doesn’t mention the threats he made earlier, there is no point, it will only upset Lily for no reason. But it was still pressing, so as Lily sunk down into one of the big, floral arm chairs in their living room, closing her eyes and rubbing at the bridge of her nose as she tried to process, Emma continued on, “It’s important that we leave before Carl gets back. Very important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t,” Lily said, opening her eyes and staring straight through Emma as if she were a ghost. “I can’t leave until I talk to Carl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, he is my husband! And he might not be the best one, but I at least owe him an explanation after all these years. At least let me write a note.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma watched in frustration as Lily got back up, fumbling around the kitchen for a pen and paper, mostly in a confused daze as she continued to mumble to herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t owe him shit, Lily!” Emma yelled, causing Starla to set down the toys she was trying to cram into the little suitcases, her eyes confused as they traveled between her mother and Emma. “He threatened me today! He threatened Starla! He knows about us and he’s going to do something drastic! We need to go, and we need to go right now. No note. No goodbye. This is it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes Lily’s hands in hers, holding her still, breathing deeply to calm the both of them as Lily began to nod slowly. Her smile feels forced as she calls Starla to her, but her voice is clear and confident as she explains that they are taking a trip and that the little girl should go wait with Emma in the car. Lily just needs to gather the money she has hidden away and then they will leave. Emma tries to explain that they don’t need the money where they are going, but she doesn’t much understand that thought herself and so she relents, taking Starla to the car as they both wait eagerly for Lily to join them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Starla is playing happily with her doll in the backseat, silent as ever, but excited and eager, happy energy flowing from her. And so Emma knows this is the right thing to do. When Lily finally does slide into the passenger seat and Emma starts the car, they grip each other’s hands in nervous excitement, off on an adventure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they don’t make it far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of the county road, where Emma would turn to take them into Dallas city proper, there is a barricade of cop cars, two men with guns pointed, standing between them and their freedom. Emma tries to breath calmly, telling herself this could be in regard to anything, but she turns slowly to Lily feeling a little betrayed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I left a note,” Lily whispers. And it is all Emma needs to hear to know that they won’t be making it for their rendezvous with the rest of her family from the future. It is all Emma needs to hear to know they won’t be going any further than the end of this road today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why, Lily?” she moans as she is forced to pull the car to a park, her hands gripping tightly at the wheel as that same humming magic stirs inside of her and she has to swallow it down to keep from causing another frantic explosion like the one in the cornfield.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cops begin to approach the vehicle, and Emma can see there are two more still seated in their cars. All eyes seemed glued to her as she rolled down the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to need you to step out of the car,” The officer says, gesturing politely to his side to make room for Emma to swing her door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What seems to be the problem, officer?” The words slip out of Emma’s mouth like muscle memory. Like she has said them before. Or heard someone else say them. They are ingrained deep inside her and though they seem to annoy the officer, they bring her a bit of comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kidnaping is a mighty big problem,” the officer answers through gritted teeth. “My brother Carl, he’s very worried about his daughter. Where are the three of you off to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to answer that,” Emma tells Lily, who is staring straight ahead, a ghostly white shade that makes Emma uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No she doesn’t,” the officer drawls, “But you do. Ma’am, get out of the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve done nothing wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You stole this car and kidnapped that child. Get out of the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her mother is right there,” Emma gestures to Lily, who still won’t look at her. “I didn’t kidnap anyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is between her and her husband. Not you. I’ll ask one last time. Ma’am, get out of the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Emma doesn’t want to hurt them, but as one of the officers back by the cars cocks his gun, she begins to feel a little afraid for Lily and Starla. And she swore she would protect them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car door explodes backward with a wave of soft, white magic, knocking the officer off his feet and sending him flying off the road with the force of the impact. She is out of the car and running forward, before the other two officers can raise and fire their guns, he magic sweeping the bullets away from the windshield of the car and pushing the officers back away from the two innocents behind her. She is gentle with those first two waves of magic, careful not to leave any more than a bruise or two. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone. She just wants to get Lily to safety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as she looks back to Lily, who is pressed back against the passenger seat of the car in fear, whispering her name like a chant, the final officer takes her by surprise, knocking Emma unconscious with the butt of his rifle. And with that last wave of consciousness Emma sends out the closest thing she can to a distress call, a wave of magic so strong it shatters the glass of all four windshields, pushes the cars themselves backward a couple feet, dulls the panicked screams of Lily and Starla’s frightened cries with a persistently sharp ringing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as everything fades to black, Emma can only hope Henry will find her again.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Something Lost and Something Found</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Good morning Captain Hook,” comes a silky sweet voice, one too perky and proper for Killian to <em>not</em> recognize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his head is incredibly foggy. And everything aches. And when he tries to bring his hand up to rub at his eyes, he finds that he can’t. And not just because of the drowsy weight still resting comfortably in his limbs, but because his arms and legs are tied to the plush armchair he is sitting in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to open his mouth, which at least is not so restricted, to say something suave and collected. To let the Wicked Witch know she hasn’t beaten him. All that comes out is a cross between a grunt and a moan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t strain that pretty little head of yours,” Milah laughs and he can feel fingers ruffling his hair. Oh good, she’s here too. Where is <em>here</em>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning his head around as far as it will go, and fighting off the blurry haze that seems to take up half his field of vision, he realizes he is in some sort of hotel suit - tied to an armchair by a ten story window - Milah nervously pacing around him while Zelena sits, legs crossed, on the edge of the comfy bed, her black gown glistening in the same baroque decadence that the room is decorated in. She is smiling, but she does not look amused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to get back to Henry,” he mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no sweetie, you’ve already missed that deadline.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian groans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet you’re wondering what you’re doing here,” Zelena laughs, motioning for Milah to stop her pacing and sit. She follows the first instruction, bringing her hands to rest gently on the pirate's shoulder, but ignores the second, preferring to continue towering over her two seated companions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma wakes up with a killer headache. Her hands are cuffed to a table and there is a man across from her, watching her with squinted eyes. If she is not mistaken, he looks a little afraid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that makes two of them, then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> She is in an interrogation room, the metal table in front of her a soothing cold on her feverish skin. The fluorescent lights are much less soothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clock is ticking away on the wall, and she seems to remember there was something important about that clock. About the time. But it escapes her now, just like any other memories of her past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blinks a few more times, finally able to sit up and swallow properly. And the man across from her opens his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Special Agent Willy Gibbs of the Federal Bureau of Investigations,” he introduces himself coldly. The same way one might speak to a snake or a rat. Something they are about to exterminate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is Lily?” Emma inquires as the memory of what happened at the car comes flooding back. Magic. She used magic. In front of everyone. In front of Lily and her daughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The agent takes his time answering, instead setting up a recording device at the edge of the table, fidgeting with the tapes as it begins to spin, a soft whirring noise that does not help Emma’s headache. She feels her frustration begin to grow, and with it, that ever-present, powerfully thumping source of energy inside her chest. That magic she can’t control - because she selfishly refused to remember how.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Page and her daughter are back in her husband’s custody,” the man finally answers, and Emma feels that magic stir just a little more frantically. It is all she can do, while biting her lip, to squash it down and keep it from destroying that stupid recording device he is still messing with. “So tell me, Emma, what is your last name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lot of names swirl through Emma’s head, all of them meaningless to her. Swan. Nolan. Jones. White. None of them mean anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cassidy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The magic swirls again, sharp and painful, cutting at her insides as she tries her best not to think of that name and the horrible, bittersweet feeling it evokes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cassidy,” she answers, unsure. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel wrong either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have any ID that can attest to that?” the man asks, finishing his inspection of the device and pulling out a little notepad to jot her words down on as well. Why on earth he needs two copies of what she says, she will never know, and so in defiance she refuses to speak. Just shakes her head sadly. No, she doesn’t have any ID.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No driver’s license? Birth certificate? Not even a social security card?” he asks again, and it is clear there is another, hidden question behind those words. He doesn’t care if she has ID, he already knows she doesn’t. What he wants to know is <em>why</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You from around here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you from, Emma?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… um… I’m not sure. I was hit by a car about a month ago. I have amnesia. I don’t remember anything before the accident.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s convenient.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And frustrating,” she mumbles through gritted teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. As far as I can tell, you just appeared out of thin air. How did that happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would tell you, but the amnesia doesn’t work that way,” she says again, and this time she doesn’t restrain herself as the magic begins to spark at her fingertips, little static pricks of light. They hurt, but in an intoxicating sort of way, and Emma likes the way the pain seems to push her anger in a constructive direction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is very hard for me to believe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome to my world,” she answers, and now the sparks are growing so strong that the agent takes notice, pausing to watch little bits of light jump from one of her fingertips to the next, putting himself a safe distance before continuing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, let’s see if we can’t help you remember then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome to try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, let’s start with a few more questions. Cause your story isn’t making sense to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ask all the questions you want. My answers aren’t going to change. I don’t remember anything,” Emma practically shouts, the magic swirling around the room now painfully bright, the agent trying his best not to shield his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you doing that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can you remember your first and last name but not remember anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I. Don’t. Know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you a Russian spy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I DON’T KNOW!” she shouts, banging her cuffed fists on the table  as the magic around her sparkles and pops and begins to press the agent back against the wall. She is so angry, ready to rip free from the cuffs around her wrists, when a soft, sweet-smelling rag is pressed to her face and slowly everything begins to calm and fade back out to black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’d like to make you an offer, Killian,” Zelena purrs. “And by we, I do mean Milah. I’d personally like to kill you - it’s one less thing on my to-do list. But Milah and I have agreed to be friends, and I’m told friends don’t kill each others boyfriends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than that, he’s useful to us,” Milah insists, though neither Zelena nor Killian seems to hear her. It strikes Killian in that moment, that <em>Milah</em> is probably not as useful as she thinks. In fact, it appears to him that Milah has long outlived her use to Zelena, and so he wonders what they are both doing still alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless Zelena is telling the truth and has managed to actually grow found of the pirate queen - an odd thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why me?” Killian asks. “I’m the last one anyone will notice is missing!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely,” Zelena says, standing up from her spot and prowling over to let her fingers tangle in his hair next to Milah’s. And if Killian is not mistaken, his brash and callous love tenses up next to him, a little too protective to be as casual as she claimed. “Aren’t you tired of being the one they forget about? You’re trying your hardest over here to be a hero, and yet no one ever seems to appreciate it. As a hero, you’re the loser of the group. Pointless, pathetic. But as a villain - dear, you struck fear into the hearts of men and woman. You were better than appreciated. You were respected!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The crocodile was too, why don’t the two of you go after him?” Killian hisses, anger bubbling out of his words as Milah seems to shrink in on herself. It is petty, to bring up her ex, but he’s not above a little pettiness when tied to a chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rumple and I have quite a complicated history,” Zelena begins. “Colorful - mostly green - to say the least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Dark One has a colorful history with everyone, myself included. That doesn’t mean he isn’t useful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a fair point,” Zelena says, casting her eyes to her female companion. “ Honestly, when Milah first started falling for you, admittedly I was like ‘Dear God, why him!?’ But then I was like, ‘We can use this.’ Well, first, I was like, ‘Are you sure? He is<em> not</em> worth it!’ but she was and so <em>then</em> I thought why not use this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re done monologuing, I’d like to go. Whatever you’re offering, I’m not taking it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zelena laughs, stepping away and turning to examine her own reflection in the mirror, Milah and Killain just out of sight as she continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not done monologuing, so just be patient. Milah has a job to do - an important one. And the pay off is going to be good Killy-kins, so just listen closely. I don’t think Milah is the only one interested in getting Baelfire back, no? So just listen to what I have to offer, and if you agree - you and Milah become a team. A team who can do what my last team failed at - Take down the heroes. So let me ask you something, Captain, when your life is on the line - because it is - where do your loyalties lie? With the heroes? Or with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian grins, that too-sharp smile he’s spent years perfecting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My loyalties, first and foremost, lie with me. Not Emma. Not Milah. Me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Zelana says with an appreciative grin. “That I can work with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two exchange a look full of meaning as Zelana turns back around to take in the Pirate Captain and his confident smile in front of her. Too confident for a man tied to a chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cut him loose, Milah, and fill him in on our plan. And Killian, if you make one single mistake - if for one second I suspect you’ve gone all 'good guy' on me again - I will kill you myself with my bare hands. No magic. No mercy. Understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, wake up!” the agent insists, and through a fuzzy haze of drugs and florescent lights, Emma rolls her neck, feeling the crack and ache of sore bones and muscles. She has been sleeping slouched forward in the chair she is handcuffed too, and her whole spine feels stiff because of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She notices, as the room begins to come into focus again, they’ve attached some sort of leather headband to her temples; her feet sit in a bucket of water. There is the faint humming of electrical wires nearby and the table and recording device from earlier have been cleared out entirely. Nothing left in the room but bodies and threats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Open your eyes,” the agents voice continues insistently, impatient at how slowly Emma is gathering her words, trying to process what is happening. The chloroform has knocked something loose in her brain, and it’s not something she wants to remember. A smile. A smile in the backseat of a stolen car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the image.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We just have a few questions for you. It’ll all be over soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that is a lie, Emma can feel it as she struggles against her restraints, let’s out a small grunt of panic as she splashes her feet in the bucket of water - panic ebbing and flowing through her veins like ocean waves crashing against the shore. Like waves... on a beach... in Florida... more painful thoughts she can't quite remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing to me?” she asks, but the words come out a little too rushed for her intentions. She is no longer calm, can’t even feign it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move again and you’ll regret it," the agent hisses, all the calm Emma has lost seems to have found it’s way into his voice as he continues. “If there is one thing the FBI takes seriously it is a communist threat to this county. Now, we know about the Russians beginning research on psychotronic warfare. We’ve heard whisperings that they are producing results. Are you one of those results, Emma?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Emma insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not the answer the agent was looking for, and so he twists the dial on the strangly humming machine, a current of electricity flowing through Emma, quickly replacing her panic with pain as she convulses backward against the chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was the lowest voltage,” the agent assures her. “It only goes up from there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Emma can’t hear him, she has retreated to somewhere else in her mind - half memory of bright lights and drizzling rain, half daydream of the man she doesn’t want to remember she has lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as she disappears into her own mind, as the world fades around her, a soft glow begins in her chest, growing in intensity as the agent steps closer to examine - completely unaware of the danger.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Be The Hero</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Now what?” David asks as Henry stares broken-hearted at the pile of sand that used to be their ride home, sitting uselessly at his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Henry mumbles, “That was my only plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what do we do?” David asks, panic rising in his voice. He's asking a twelve year-old. He should know better, but the pure panic of the last couple days have finally reached him and he's no more collected than the little boy so full of determination in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suggest,” Rumple moans from his spot near the dumpster, his voice hoarse and raw, “We make our peace with whatever gods we bealive in, because those three witches are coming for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t just resign ourselves to die,” David hisses at the old man before turning back to his grandson. “What about Snow and Emma? Where are they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not here,” Henry hisses, beginning to pace around the ally. “They should have been here, and they’re not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyone else worried about the pirate?” Rumple groans, finally collecting himself enough to push himself into a standing position. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something must have happened to them,” David amends quickly. “They wouldn’t just miss this. Something must have happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the other possibility hangs heavy in the air. That maybe, Emma and Snow had chosen these lives over the ones back in Storybrooke. The possibility that nothing has happened to them - that David and Henry just weren’t their first choice anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget it!” Henry shouts, kicking the edge of the dumpster and then wincing in pain. “Forget them; forget the pirate. We live here now, I guess. No more Storybrooke, no more family. Zelena’s done what every other villain failed at. She’s managed to tear us apart!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Henry, “ David whispers, reaching out for the boy and wincing as Henry pulls away in frustration. “Henry!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And David isn’t the only one concerned. Over Rumple's shoulder, Neal wipes at his mouth, still feeling just as nauseous as when he’d been inhabiting his father’s body, his heart a little broken at the pain rising in his son’s voice. Neal just couldn’t believe Emma would leave him like this - memories or not. Something must have happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to find her,” he whispers to his dad, who is doing a great job of angrily ignoring him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what!?” Henry declares in anger and frustration as three adult men watch his breakdown, unaware how to help. Emma would know. Snow would know. But they weren’t here right now. “It’s every man for himself! I’ve got my mom’s bracelet, I don’t have to worry about the witches' magic! Emma and Snow want to abandon us, that’s fine! I’ll be fine. The rest of you can just figure it out! I’m tired of always being the one who has to figure it out! I’m twelve! I shouldn’t be everyone’s last hope!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Henry!” Neal calls helplessly and soundlessly after his son as the little boy storms back into Archie’s building, probably to find a place to cry alone, without the adults watching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it just me, or has Henry gotten a touch more vicious?” Rumple mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David sighs. Henry is right. He’s just a kid. This isn’t his responsibility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, Dark One, or whatever you’re going by now-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Gold is still fine-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. Go check on Mary Margaret. Make sure she’s okay. When she is, find Emma and we’ll meet back here. I’ll take care of Henry for now. He’s wrong about one thing - Zelena is not going to tear this family apart!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And before Rumple can protest the thought of being left alone with his son, David is sprinting back into the building, calling out Henry’s name as if he were looking for a lost puppy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a heavy sigh, The Dark One collects himself, pushing away from the ally wall he had been leaning on for support and taking a good look around the little brick passageway, letting his glare finally land on Neal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You! You have had your possession privileges revoked!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal just smirks with a shrug, turning to follow his father back to Mary Margaret’s house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sweet Jesus! What the hell are we going to do?” Ray shouts as he and Mary Margaret stand over the dead witch, her lips unusually blue, her head tilted to the side at an unnaturally still angle.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down,” Mary Margaret tries to assure him as his voice rises in pitch. “It’s going to be okay, just calm down!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down?” he asks, his voice growing higher by the second. “You just killed a white woman in our living room, how am I supposed to calm down? What are we going to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I killed a witch,” Mary Margert insists. “She was going to kill us both Ray. She was going to kill us! What were we supposed to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not were! Are! What are we supposed to do now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll admit, it doesn’t look good,” she mumbles, turning back to the dead witch and wracking her brain for what to do now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re done,” Ray sighs, beginning to pace. “The movement is finished. They’re going to give me the chair for this! What are we going to do?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, as if on cue, the doorbell rings. Little David, who had been tucked away safely upstairs when the witches arrived, begins to wail - but the noise goes unnoticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both turn, swallowing hard as they imagine the police waiting on the other side of that door. Both covered in  enough blood to be suspicious, the couch barley shielded from the front entryway by only one simple pillar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, as the doorbell begins to ring, more frequently and insistently, as if someone is leaning on the button, Mary Margaret turns to get the door. It has to be her. It can’t be Ray. They won’t wait for the chair if he answers that door. But if it’s her, maybe she can buy herself enough time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enough time for what?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cautiously, she peels back the door, leaving only enough space for her face, ready to try and smile her way through a shaking voice and blood-soaked blouse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello dearie,” Rumple says with a grin, using the tip of his cane to catch the edge of the door and fling it wide open. “Sorry it’s late, but I do believe you have some explaining to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as the door flies open, the scene in the living room coming into full view, he only chuckles softly to himself as he continues his way into their home, leaving a stunned Mary Margaret in the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, my, my, I do believe you have<em> a lot</em> of explaining to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Gold, now is not a very good time,” Ray insists, his voice level, impatient as The Dark One makes his way over to the couch, rolling up his sleeves as he leans in to get a better look at the dead witch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his words go unnoticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And here we were, all worried for <em>you</em> when you didn’t show up. Turns out we should have been worried for poor Cruella.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Gold,” Ray says, a little more impatient as he steps forward, trying - and failing - to place himself between the old man and the lifeless woman on the couch. “You really are the last person-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Mary Margaret sighs, letting herself sink less than gracefully back into the chair behind her. “He’s the first person we want here, Ray. Trust me, he’s the only person I know who can make this problem go away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple turns, offering her a toothy grin, one that might have even held a small amount of affection in it as he stepped forward to wipe a smudge of blood from her cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s going to be one of these sorts of nights,” he chuckles. “So, are we burnin’ or buryin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily sits at the kitchen table like a scolded child, her hands folded patiently in front of her as her husband talks into the phone behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So they’re questioning her now? Well I appreciate it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily flinches at the glee in his voice, how excited he sounds at the prospect. Lily feels sick to her stomach, upset and disappointed in herself. This is all her fault. She should have let Emma go when she had the chance. Shouldn’t have left the note. Should. Shouldn’t. The possibilities were endless, but now - this was the story they were trapped in. It was the same story Lily had been trapped in her entire life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take care now,” Carl tells his brother on the other end of the line, hanging the phone up softly in its cradle before pulling out a chair next to Lily and looking at her almost softly. Not softly, the way a husband looks at a wife, but softly - the way a farmer looks at an injured horse before he puts it out of its misery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’re welcome,” Carl says patiently when her acknowledgment doesn’t come. He waits for the thank you he thinks should have preceded it, but Lily barley looks at him. “My brother says I was right. He says they think Emma is some sort of KGB agent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s impossible,” Lily breaths. “It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think about it Lils, she just shows up on the side of the road. No memory of her previous life?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that’s a crime you should have me arrested, too. Or do you not remember how the Page family - your family - found me all those years ago?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s different,” he insists, “You were a baby then. And I know - all your sympathies for Emma stem from that shared feeling of abandonment, I don’t blame you sweetheart, but Emma isn’t like you. And she don’t belong in this family. Don’t feel bad; she tricked us both.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily just shakes her head, stifling a sob. No, Emma wasn’t lying to her. She hadn’t been lying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault,” Carl insists, misreading Lily’s tears. “I don’t blame you for what happened. That’s what these agents are trained to do - mislead. Or lead astray. She prayed on your weakness, your sympathies, your common pasts - she tried to turn us against each other. But I won’t let her. I won’t let anyone take you away from me. Tomorrow we’ll go down to the church - you can have a talk with Reverend Moore. He’ll put things back in perspective for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that is enough to get Lily crying harder than ever - Carl’s hands stroking her back in an attempt at comfort, only stoking her misery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the doorway, Starla watches, her doll clutched in one hand, a strange white glow blossoming in her chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian feels the electricity before Milah does, the two of them sitting in an Irish pub, splitting a drink. He feels it in his bones the same way he could always tell when a red sky meant a warning on his ship. There is a storm coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milah,” he begins, causally pushing his drink back and turning his eyes up to face her, “If I were to step out for a moment, would you kill me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be a baby, I saved your life. Zelena isn’t going to kill you now. You’re welcome!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for drugging and kidnapping me, it really does bring back some fun memories from the old days, love. If you aren’t threatening to kill me, are we really in love? But I need a smoke bad and I don’t want you thinking I’m running out on you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks at him curiously. “We can go together, I need a smoke too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She follows him outside, lighting a cigarette between her lips before passing it to him and pulling another out of her pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stand there, leaning against the wall and contemplating the next part of Zelena’s plan, smoke drifting around them in a lazy haze. He doesn’t have time for this, he knows, but standing there with her so close, he wants to stay. He’d be anything for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And a little for himself too, he’s always been a selfish bastard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is comfortable, having his hook back, being dressed in clothes that fit attractively over his lean frame, thick-soled boots in just his size encasing his feet in comfort. He feels safer with his knives strapped in their leather holsters under his coat, another tucked up his sleeve and accessible with just a flick of his wrist. He has his a green charm on the chain around his neck - allowing him to open and close portals when and where he needs to. Milah has her own jewelry with much the same powers. Together, the two of them are unstoppable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is comfortable being the villain again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that feeling, that sick sensation of a storm brewing, is coating his skin again and it amazes him that Milah doesn’t feel it. She had always been so aware of these things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to take a leak,” he tells her, crushing his half-finished cigarette under the toe of his boot. “When I get back we can head out. I think it’s best we start with The Dark One - he poses the biggest threat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she calls as he turns to go, grabbing him by the lapels of his leather coat and pulling him into a quick kiss. It is a kiss that he wishes would be longer. “We’ve got this, don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not worried, love,” he assured her, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear before turning back to the bar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods in agreement as he slips back inside, turning to make sure she hasn’t followed before letting his hand rest lightly on the front door to the bar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he leaves now, he paints a giant target on his back. If he leaves now, Milah might never forgive him. If he leaves now, he might still be able to help Emma and Henry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly, he scrawls a message on a bar napkin and slips it into Milah’s purse, sitting forgotten on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back to the window, a faint glow filling the sky over the downtown FBI building - like a nuclear bomb glowing brightly before detonating. Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he leaves now, he still has a chance to be the hero.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. In Love With Dying</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Emma feels like she is being watched, but by who she can’t tell. Questions reverberate in her mind - as if some omnipresent God is asking her questions on a test she hasn’t studied for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But a better question would have been <em>where?</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looks like a fairground, the lights shining brightly, but completely devoid of people. The scent of hot chocolate floats in the air, a light drizzle of rain pricking her skin. She is wearing a dress, which is odd because Emma hasn’t worn a dress in sincerity for years. And that strikes her as odd, to suddenly remember that fact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The humming intensifies, the prickle on her skin no longer just rain but lightning as well, as she continues to step through the abandoned carnival, looking around her in curiosity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the voice starts to shift, and suddenly it is not so harsh and demanding, but soft and feminine. There is a woman, rounded cheeks and jet-black hair sitting on the swing set - the kind that fly high into the sky with nothing but a flimsy, metal bar in your lap to keep you from floating off into the clouds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the swings aren’t spinning now, the ride glows with life and electricity, but the woman sits with her feet dangling ever so slightly above the platform, her eyes soft, maternal, as Emma steps toward her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” Mary Margaret asks again as Emma joins her, lifting the lap bar to sit on a swing next to her. Rain splashes up around her feet as she presses them, solid, on the metal ground beneath her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m your daughter,” Emma answers, and she knows it to be true. She remembers. “You gave me up, to keep me safe. But I’m your daughter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” she hears another voice, calling softly to her and as she spins in her chair she sees a little boy sitting on the swing a few feet behind them, messy brown hair and a charming smile that hurts her. And she doesn’t know why that smile is so painful - but she feels the answer bubbling up in her heart, like magic - she struggles to push the knowledge, and the pain that comes with it, back down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Henry,” she breaths, reaching out for the boy, but just like that the swings begin to move, rising up in the air as the ground disappears from under her feet - the rain stinging her painfully now, like tiny static shocks as they begin to spin through the air, faster and faster - the momentum pulling her and Henry further apart as their hands reach for each other, desperate to be reunited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to remember!” Henry shouts, and as his voice reverberates around the quickly-moving ride, the swings begin to fill with people Emma remembers, all shouting her name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” Regina shouts, her hand gripping Henry’s knee as the two of them spin away from the Savior.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” shout David and Mary Margaret in unison as the two cling to each other, also reaching out toward her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” shouts Killian, just a few swings ahead, his head tilted cautiously to the side, as if he is unsure she will respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” shouts Mr. Gold, his voice hoarse and desperate, those sharp canines gleaming, beast-like in the carnival lights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet the swings go faster and faster, pain and magic and electricity bubbling out from underneath her skin - all equally deadly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” He shouts, his voice as desperate as it had been in the woods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” He shouts again, as panicked as when the swirling green vortex had ripped his hand from hers and carried him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” He says, his voice lowering to a whisper, the way he had called her name in the dead of night when they were children running from nightmares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” calls the man she doesn’t want to remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The power and the pain are too great for her to contain and she feels her magic exploding out of her like a deadly bomb - shattering the illusion of the swings and the people and the life she had tried too hard to suppress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is just her, standing there in an empty white space, eyes locked on the toy car in her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little yellow bug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she knows, if she stares at that car for too long it will mean something. If she lets it hold her gaze, it will grow in size, trapping her inside it like a lifeless doll. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she can’t look away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That voice, booming and dark - the omnipresent God - pours back into her mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Emma, who are you really? Where did you come from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re all waiting,” Henry says, and as she looks down into the darkness she sees him there, smiling patiently up at her the same way he had back in Boston, pointing toward the car which is getting larger and heavier by the second. “We’re all waiting for the answer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The answer to what?” she asks, her heart heavy. “I don’t understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will,” her son insists, nodding again toward the car, as Emma sets it down gently and watches it grow large enough to step into - no longer a tiny plastic toy, but a real car made of steel and gasoline. Real in her mind at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not ready,” she insists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?!” the disembodied voice booms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly she is surrounded by all of Storybrooke, impatiently waiting for her to step forward and open the driver’s door. No - the backseat. The thing she is looking for - it’s in the backseat. And they are all watching, and waiting, all encouraging her to open the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be afraid, mom,” Henry encourages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She steps forward, hand shaking as her fingers grace the cool metal of the car’s door handle. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and tugs the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And for just a moment, she thinks she sees Starla standing there, watching her through the car window - frightened of the woman staring back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remember!” the agent’s voice booms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so as her memories flood back to her mind, her magic pours out into the real world.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Swan Song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rumple sits at the table, sipping his cup of tea with Neal, while Mary Margaret and Ray follow his carefully laid out instructions to dispose of the witch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t going to help?” Mary Margaret practically screams at him as he shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I already have, dearie. I told you what to do. Now run along before the cops arrive - that rolled up rug isn’t going to burry itself under the rose bushes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what was it like?” Neal finally asks as the other two leave, breaking the tense silence between the two, having not spoken since the alleyway. “When I possessed you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Disappointing, to say the least. Truly, I feel sorry for Emma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal feels the tips of his ears turn red, embarrassment and anger as his father changes the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what was it like for you, getting to finally feel important again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, I get it. You’re mad at me, but that’s no reason to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s taken care of!” Mary Margaret interrupts, wiping mud across her forehead as she and Ray reappear in the living room. “Where you talking to yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But an answer never comes. Instead, the living room fills with a bright green light. One of Zelena’s swirling portals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All hands reach for a weapon, including Neal’s ghostly ones, but it is a different - slightly less feminine - silhouette that steps forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian! Jesus!” Mary Margaret screams, clutching at her chest. “Ray this is… my… pirate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ray doesn't open his mouth to rationalize, his eyes too fixed on the swirling green mass now taking up the majority of the living room and the leather-clad man emerging from it as if it were nothing but a doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They watch as the portal snaps closed quickly, the pirate’s hand twisting at a green crystal hanging from the chin around his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, you’re both here - I assume Neal too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple answers with a curt nod, ignoring the shocked look on Snow's face. Well... he had told her...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, well, we have to go. Ray, was it? I’m sorry to crash the party like this, I know it’s dreadful etiquette, but I’m going to need to borrow your wife and… well I’m going to need to borrow my friends for a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Mary Margaret asks, skeptically eyeing the green pendent that brought him here. “We’ve already missed the witch's deadline. No one is leaving Dallas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not one to waste words, Killian points out the window to the night sky, now lit up by a bright, white glow on the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is that?” Ray asks as he and his wife move closer to the window, Rumple’s head turned slightly to the side the only indication he might be interested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s Emma,” Killian insists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since when do you care about helping us?” Neal asks, his father speaking the words into reality for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean,” Rumple continues after translating for his son, “You missed Zelena’s deadline. Now you show up here using her magic. Why should we assume you’re in this to help us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t," Killian says with a shake of his head. “But if we don’t get to Emma soon, she won’t be the only one singing a swan song. Can’t you feel it? That much magic? It’s more than the curse that brought us here. More than I’ve felt in my entire life. She’s going to blow this town and everyone in it - myself included - off the map if we don’t help her. Don't trust that I'm trying to help you, trust that I'm doing what I've always done and I'm trying to help me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a trap,” Neal mumbles, Rumple nodding along, voicing that thought loudly as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not. I’ll explain on the way. Either way, you end up dead - so you might as well come with me before Emma causes doomsday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple sighs, pushing himself to his feet and heading across the room to join the pirate. Killian gestures impatiently for Mary Margaret to follow them. Neal stands angrily over his shoulder, squinting at his father’s betrayal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m coming,” she finally whispers. “But I need a moment with Ray.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The men nod, leaving the room as Mary Margaret turns to her husband, pressing her palms against the sharp slope of his jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his lips. "And I really wish I had the time to explain. You deserve so many explanations. But-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you have to go,” he finishes for her quietly, resigned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I have to go back to my family,” she agrees softly, kissing him one last time. “I have to help my daughter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And David?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll be back for him when it's time. And if I'm not, then something terrible has happened, in which case, he belongs with you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, it’s time to start talking,” The agent presses, seemingly unaware - at the very least unfrightened - by the bright whites of Emma’s eyes, glowing so strongly - like rays of sunlight - that her pupils are no longer visible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t respond, as if comatose in the chair. Turning the dial on the electrical machine has long since stopped working - with every surge the brightness she emits grows, but her nerves no longer respond to the jolt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think we’ve killed-” the woman to his left holding the first aid kit asks nervously, but Emma is still sitting stick straight, staring forward as if fixated on the far wall. She is far from dead - the white light pulsing from within her getting brighter and warmer by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The agent holds up his hand, reaching out to shush his assistant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, who is your handler?” he persists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No response, but the glow grows larger - painfully hot at this point. The lights in the room begging to flicker, and then pop, sending shards of glass raining down and leaving Emma and her strange glow as the only light source in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing in Dallas?” the agent persists, his own frustration and anger causing him to overlook the warning signs, the pulsing of her magic has stopped, burning brightly and steady, pushing outward like a spreading wild fire. “Keep ignoring me and see what happens!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What happens is an explosion of light so blindingly bright that the agent and his assistant have to flinch away to shield their eyes. But it doesn’t matter, because with the light comes a force so strong it lifts them both off their feet, throwing them back against the wall with sickening crunches, both landing at odd - inhuman angles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t have any more questions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Couldn’t ask them if they wanted to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even with her interrogators gone, Emma’s trace continues - her magic pushing outward, shattering the windows, punching through drywall, slowly destroying the building around her. It continues to push outward growing in deadly size - intent on destroying everything the way Zelena destroyed her life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah isn’t surprised when she enters the bar again to find Killian gone. It had been a pipe dream at best, holding onto something they both let go of centuries ago. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed him until she saw him again in that institute. But even more surprising was how little he seemed to have missed her. Emma Swan - Henry - all seemed more important to him now than her. And so she is heartbroken but not surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What surprises her is the note he left behind, scribbled quickly on a napkin with a beer-glass ring still drying around the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen a pirate?” she asks the bartender frantically. “Just short of six feet? Eyeliner and jewelry for days? Sort of looks like you could just punch him in the face without really knowing why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The barkeeper shakes his head and goes back to cleaning out the glasses with a white rag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah twists on the necklace she wears, green smoke wrapping around her like anger as it whirls her away to Zelena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baelfire is dead!” she insists, waving the napkin in front of the witch without waiting for an explanation. “It is his ghost you plan to let me speak to! You cold-hearted bitch!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look lovely today,” Zelena grins, setting her book down on the end table as she turns to smile at Milah, who is waving Killian’s note in the air like a little white flag of surrender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except her expression doesn’t exactly say 'surrender'.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like a-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is Killian doing? Worth our time and effort? Working out well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t about that!” Milah hisses as she storms over, lifting Zelena off the couch by the neck of her dress as she hisses, “He lasted about ten minutes, just you predicted. But this isn’t about that! It’s about my son!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I suppose it is,” Zelena grins up at her, disappearing in a puff of green smoke before reappearing on the other side of the room, dusting off her dress as if Milah had left fingerprints through her leather gloves. “So what exactly did he tell you about Baelfire? Did that greasy little gonad tell you the real truth?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah looks at the note in her hand, her heart breaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So he is dead? So it’s only his ghost you’re going to reunite me with?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unfortunately yes, dear. But before you get mad at me… Aren’t you the least bit interested in who killed him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mlah wipes at a wayward tear on her cheek. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean the six heroes still wandering the timeline - they’re responsible for Bealfire’s death. Charming and Snow turned their back on him - driving him to desperate magic to get back to his son. Belle encouraged his impulsive behavior, put the tome of his demise in his very hands. Killian, left in charge of watching him - let him go off to his death in the hopes of stealing his woman. Your husband, the very force that consumed him. And Emma - her magic - the murder weapon. So yes, Killian is telling you a half truth. I didn’t want to hurt you with the details of your son’s death. Now, who are you really mad at? Who do you really think should suffer the blame? What would you like to do about it, dear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah stairs shocked at the woman in black standing before of her, too-red lips grinning hungrily - false remorse written across the green canvas of her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me?” Milah asks, dumbfounded. Was she really being given a choice? For the first time since knowing the witch, was she really being set free?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, <em>your</em> son, <em>your</em> choice,” Zelena encourages. “I can send you back to Hades, go on all by my lonesome. Or you can help me put down the little puppies whose incompetence led to Baelfire’s death. Sounds like a tough choice… A real brain teaser.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this some sort of test?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Everything is. Are you going to fail it like you failed your son?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah growls, tossing Killian’s napkin into the wastebasket with a hardened heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian isn’t responsible for this. He’s done nothing but protect Baelfire’s son. I want to join you - I’ll hunt down the heroes. But Killian gets to leave with me at the end of the day. If what you say is true, he’s the only family I have left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zelena’s face hardens as she takes a deadly step toward her companion, fingernails gripping Milah’s chin as she tilts the other woman’s face down to meet her own expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blood may be thicker than water, dear, but you can drown in both. I’m about to have all of Storybrooke at my disposal, and I can offer you a seat of power once it’s all done. Bargain with Hades for the release of your soul. Maybe your son’s, too. But in order to do that, I’m going to need you to let the pirate drown. This isn’t about Trust, anymore, Milah. It’s about Common Sense. Am I clear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Milah whispers, feeling a pinprick of blood trickle down her cheek from where Zelena’s nails are biting into it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. The Five Stages Of Grief</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The three of them had struggled up the stairs to the FBI building, Killian in the lead as the other two followed close behind - the glowing and a high pitched whine growing brighter and louder as they reached the top of the building. The heat like a collapsing star - causing sweat to drop down their brows as they each held a prayer on  their lips that it wasn’t too late. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as the doors are thrown open to reveal a hallway littered with crumpled and discarded officers, all pushed violently way from the source of the glow by an unseen force - those last twenty feet to where Emma sits strapped to a chair seems impossibly far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They can see her there, head thrown back as if in pain - a wind-like force and sharp glow radiating out of her as if she were just a poorly made vessel for the magic inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hallway itself looks like it is trying to contain a hurricane, the brick and mortar of the walls shaking, crumbling away. There isn’t much time left before the whole building collapses, and then what? What will happen without these walls here to stop the overwhelming raw power of Emma’s magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the longer they stand - taking in the sight - the stronger the magic becomes; the force pushes all three of them back against the stairway door, causing the heroes to fall to their knees, a desperate crawl for cover behind a wall the is still half-holding up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is Mary Margaret who reaches safety first, digging her nails into the drywall in an attempt to get closer to her daughter, to not be pushed away yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian is next, digging his hook into the wall and wrapping his good arm around Mary Margaret’s waist, holding her with him as they catch their breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little help,” they hear a small plea, and both let go of each other long enough to reach out and pull Rumple toward them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Safe for a moment, the whine of Emma’s magic making it impossible to think, they breath as one as their eyes fall softly to the savior - now anything but.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a question,” Rumple mumbles as their breathing returns to normal. “What exactly are we trying to save Ms. Swan from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The FBI!” Mary Margaret and Killian shout back together, watching as The Dark One wedges himself in a corner, using his feet to keep from being carried back into the overwhelming current of magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. But has anyone else noticed all the police seem pretty deceased? So if they’re all gone… why hasn't she stopped?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a good question, one the other two don’t have an answer for. Mary Margert presses both hands to her temples, trying to squelch the migraine building from the pressure and noise just behind her eyelids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll find out when we get to her,” Killian whispers, turning to peek around the wall hopeful to catch another glimpse of Emma inside all the bright light and rushing wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how do you purpose we <em>get to her</em>?” Rumple asks impatiently. “I take it your portal necklace isn’t going to work here? That would be just too convenient now wouldn't it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still working on that one,” Killian mumbles. “I can’t seem to get it to do anything this close to so much raw magic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Actually it hasn’t seemed to work since he left Milah in the bar, and he’s a little concerned Zelena might have designed it that way. Good for running away once, he feels a little like his defection might be exactly what the witch had wanted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, when you two figure it out, best of luck,” Rumple sighs. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You two are the heroes - you’re her mother - her lover - I’m nothing to her. It only makes sense, the weak, old, magicless man stays behind. The two of you save the day. Go! Be heroes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret reaches out and slaps him across the head, Killian has to wrap his arms around her waist again to pull her, still crouching, off of Mr. Gold - eyes rabid as she growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your magic got us into this mess!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t pussy out now, you coward!” Killian screams. “Where is The Dark One who killed my Milah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably back with his dagger!” Rumple shouts over the noise. “I don’t want to die at the hands of Ms. Swan - that does not make me a coward. If you’re so brave, why don’t you go save her, you greasy, one-handed drunk!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are going out there!” Killian growls, letting go of Mary Margaret so that he can reach for The Dark One, pulling him aggressively away from the safety of his corner and wrestling as both of them try to stay behind the wall. “Now get off your ass or I will beat you, and not in the fun way, either!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go Away!” Rumple shouts back as he kicks Killian, scrambling back to his corner. “Go be a martyr for the woman you love - like you should have done last time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a villain, not a martyr! That seems like a job for Snow White!” Killian shouts, both men realizing for the first time that they are alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret has wiggled her way out of Killian’s reach and out past the edge of the wall, crawling against the gale-force winds to get to her daughter. Blood is dripping from her ears and nose as she shouts Emma’s name into the glow, using her hands to pull her forward as her feet scramble for purchase underneath her, but she couldn't care less about such trivial injuries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, stop!” she screams into the magic. “You have to stop or you're going to hurt people!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if provoked, the light flares, throwing Mary Margaret backward as she slams against the wall and falls forward, limp and unconscious. Rumple crawls his way over, pressing fingers to her throat before giving Killian a thumbs up. Her pulse is weak, but it is there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So maybe it really does have to be Killian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>True Love's kiss and all that, he thinks. Though he doesn’t feel so sure of himself as he digs his boots into the ground and manages to stand. If he’s going to die trying to save her, he’s going to do it with a touch of dignity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one hand pressed to the wall for support, he uses his hook to pull himself forward, leaving punctures in the drywall as he struggles to stay on his feet. And though Killian has much experience weathering storms - sea legs to be envied by even the most experienced of sailors - it is no easy task for him to get to the doorway. He feels blood drip from his nose as once again he digs his hook into the wall and pulls himself with all his might, arms aching from the effort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to get to Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is no use, he realizes as a fire extinguisher begins to wobble on the wall, the steel that is holding it to crumbling drywall bending and distorting from the magic. If he doesn’t let go it will hit him when it dislodges, like a cannonball to the stomach, carrying him backward all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s fine with Killian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he knows he isn’t Emma’s True Love. Had he reached her, it would have been with thoughts of Milah on his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to make it,” he calls back over his shoulder, pulling his hook from the wall and spreading his arms wide as he is caught by the rushing whirlwind of the magic. “It’s up to you, Crocodile. Show them what a villain can do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Killian, that’s a terrible idea!” Rumple calls back, just a little too late.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winces as the pirate is pushed back, landing in a heap on top of Mary Margaret - his breathing light but still visible. Winces again as a loose fire extinguisher punches through the wall above their heads, causing bits and pieces of the ceiling to crumple inward. Soon the whole building will collapse, and despite that meaning their imminent doom, there is no telling what Emma’s magic might do to protect her from that kind of harm. It might not be just their doom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t risk Killian’s prediction. He can’t risk her blowing the whole town sky-high, not while Belle is off living her Happily Ever After in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rummages around the pirate for a moment, producing the two knives, which he uses to propel himself across the floor. Low enough to avoid as much of the impact as possible, digging each one into the linoleum as he presses his weight forward with feeble strength. He was too much of a coward to save his son - he won’t let that stop him from saving Belle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do this,” he assures himself, remind himself of his strength with each thrust of the knife forward. “You lived through the Ogre Wars. You found your son after centuries. You’ve killed countless to save the ones you love. You can do this now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ground is slick with the blood dripping from his ears and nose, the whine growing higher in pitch by the second. He is barley able to breath as the air is pushed from his lungs by the rush of magic, but he pushes himself forward knowing he is Emma’s - and everyone else’s - last chance. And he won’t fail them now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes it to the door with a shout of effort, throwing his full weight against the handles as he yanks it open - finally catching a glimpse of the beautiful blonde inside - like a princess trapped in a tower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But in that startled moment of realization that he has made it where the other two failed, his wounded foot is unable to find purchase against the soft floor, and just like the others he is pushed backward into a heap, useless and discarded by Emma’s magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so, the three heroes - for that is what they were - lay helpless against the destruction soon to be brought on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the feet of one man, unaffected by the overwhelming force coursing down the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Son,” Rumple whispers with a small smile as his eyes drift closed, the world fades out to a pleasant darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>Not having a body, it would seem, finally had a perk,</em> Neal thought to himself as he took one cautious step, and then another, toward the end of the hall where Emma waited.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Dancing With Myself</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Emma has always looked like an angel to Neal - blonde curls and a beautiful smile making him feel more complete than he ever had before she walked into his life. Now, as he stands over her, haloed in her own magic, she looks even more otherworldly. Stunning, breathtaking - and in immeasurable pain. Her eyes are wide open, but blank and white, her whole body quivering with the effort of the magic, as if locked in a seizure. She is beautiful as ever, but his heart breaks for her pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is exactly what he had meant to avoid, asking her to sever him from his father out in the woods. This is exactly the kind of pain he wanted to save her from - hoping his sacrifice could be made before Zelena brought her terrible curse down on his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he could die again to take that pain away from her now, he would.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gently he sets his hand down over hers, focusing all his energy into his fingertips, trying to recreate what he had done with his father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first couple tries his hands slide through hers, leaving him frustrated - she doesn’t even flinch as if she knows he is there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But on the third try, he feels her flesh solid against his ghostly hand - presses just a little farther with a deep breath as he leans back and lets himself be absorbed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows it has worked from the sheer pain of it all, every synapse in his body running wild with electricity, muscles clench tightly as he lets a small moan of pain escape his lips and he opens his eyes, looking into the world that Emma must be seeing right now. The one she has created for herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is the fairground where they went on their very first date - rain and thunder crashing down around the little covered platform of the swings as he stands, walking in a slow circle. He is alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the winds and lighting swirling around him reminds him of the very dangerous sistuation Emma is in and so cautiously, Neal begins to walk in a slow circle around the stairs, calling out her name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could it be that all that is left is a shell? No Emma to be found?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought frightens him so badly that he almost steps on it, the bright little spot of yellow: a toy car sitting by one of the swings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks it up and very cautiously brings it to his eye, sees a lifeless figure laying huddled in the fetal position in the backseat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal opens the door, carefully lowering himself into the seat next to her, afraid to startle her awake. She is hunched over, clutching he knees tightly to her chest, eyes squeezed shut so firmly that little crows-feet frame their edges in pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma?” he whispers cautiously, seeing her stir a little. Trembling she turns toward him, her whole body blooming like a flower as her eyes open wide in panicked shock and Neal reaches out a hand to stroke her knee, a smile he can’t suppress shaping his own lips as he sees the recognition in her eyes. “Hey Em. Do you remember me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I remember everything,” she says, her breath hitched with worry as her eyes fall to the hand on her knee, tears leaking out of eyes that are still too wide an unblinking. “Is it really you?”</span>
</p><p><span>He nods solemnly as she collapses into tears again, lets her whole body shake with emotion as he pulls her against him - huddled together in the backseat like when they were kids and trying to wait out a thunderstorm like the one </span>now whirling around the windows outside.</p><p>
  <span>“I killed you!” she wails. “I killed you and it still didn’t save us!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses her tighter against his chest, stroking her hair as his fingers tangle against wild knots, whispering nothings into her ear, trying to calm her and the storm outside at the same time. And he realizes - as his senses reach out for the rain - that he is as much a force inside her now as her own brain. That he has as much control in this realm as she does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A startling reminder that he exists now only in relation to others. Like a memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as Emma wails and thunder cracks - Neal manages to reach out and slow the torrential pounding of rain on the car roof to a light drizzle, running down the windows like the tears on Emma’s cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They say I’m The Savior, but I couldn’t even save the man I love!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not too late,” he tells her, his heart breaking at the hopeful upturns of her face as she looks into his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can bring you back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head sadly. It wasn’t that simple. If he could make it that simple for Emma, he would. But it wasn’t that simple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can save Henry. And your parents. My father. It’s not to late to still save everyone else. There is still a life worth fighting for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want that life, not if it is without you!” She wails and it takes a large amount of effort on Neal’s part to keep the rain from picking up again. He is expending quiet a lot of energy trying to clear away the weather outside the window - energy that he can feel leaving him with every second. “I don’t deserve it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, this is bigger than you or me. This is about our son. And everyone else who will be trapped in Storybrooke with that witch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I killed you!” she wails again, clutching tighter to his shirt, and he can feel the ache of her fingers pressing against him. For a moment, he feels real, and he is tempted to stay in here forever. Live out their last few moments before she goes off like a bomb - huddled together like frightened children.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he can’t let that happen to Henry and his father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her gasping sniffles fill his heart with pain as he tries the only approach he can think of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, I was dead before I ever got to you. I was dead the moment I put that key in the lock back in The Enchanted Forest. You didn’t kill me, you set me free. The same way you gave Henry up so he could have his best shot at life - you set me free to move on with my afterlife. You didn’t kill me. Zelena did. And she’s going to kill everyone else if you don’t wake up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands take hers as her eyes lock onto his, the rain outside ceasing completely as he pulls her into a quick kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to do great things, baby,” he tells her as they pull away. “You’re going to save a whole lot more people than you hurt in this life. I believe in you. And yeah, maybe you have a right to be pissed off and sad and a little messed up sometimes, but we didn’t live in a fairytale like the rest of them did, Em. We know this is a shitty world, full of shitty people, and the best we can do is just <em>our best</em>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” she sighs softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too. And if it were that simple, everything would be all right. But right now our families - our son - are in danger. They’re risking everything to save you. To get you home. You need to let them. You aren’t a lost girl any more Emma, you have a family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal extends the last of his energy, clearing the overcast sky so that the whole car is filled with beams of calming sunshine, smiling softly at Emma as pieces of him begin to glow. It starts at his hands, entwined with hers, and she lets go in a startled gasp - watching small blue sparks break away from his skin, as if he is made of fireflies, suddenly deciding to leave the shape they’ve held for so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neal,” she asks, cautiously. “What’s happening to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles sadly. They both already know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t go back with you,” he says, watching as the blue sparks spread up his arms and chest, leaving little empty spaces behind where they float away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” she asks, her voice hitching higher as a few clouds reappear in the sky. She reaches out for one of the stray blue sparks as if to capture it and put it back, only to have it fizzle and pop as it disappears like a bubble. “Am I hurting you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault,” he whispers, closing his eyes again as he makes those last clouds disappear, another section of sparks disappearing from around his heart. “I’ve been holding on as long as I can against your magic, Emma, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you shouldn’t have come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, I died three years ago, in your arms. You remember it. These last three years with my father, they’ve been a bonus. A blessing. A chance to fix what he and I left unsaid. But it’s time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods understanding, a few tears trickling down her cheeks. But the rain doesn’t appear again. She has calmed, and Neal feels a weird sense of pride and peace that he was able to bring that calm to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I ask you a weird favor?” he chuckles, looking down at the empty space in his stomach as more sparks fly away, faster and faster as time passes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you hold me? Like you did in the woods? Until I’m really gone this time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, scooting across the car seat and letting him settle his head against her shoulder, wrapping arms around him as she strokes his face with her fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sparks are warm against her skin, like little burst of embers from a dying fire as they continue to crackle, and she knows there isn’t much left before he crumbles completely like the last logs in that dying fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have another favor,” he mumbles into her shoulder. “If you’re willing. Tell my dad, and he’ll help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, listening carefully to his instructions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will it work?" she asks, hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hell if I know," he laughs through that last bit of panic. What comes next? He doesn't know - does anyone ever? "But it's worth a try. And if it doesn't, I'll see you and Henry again some day. But not too soon, take your time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you too, Em," he smiles. "I always have. And I always will."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And on his last words, he fades- all the sparks seeming to dim, until Emma is alone in the backseat of the Bug. Nothing left to do but wake up and save her family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it's going to be hard, of course it is, but she can't let Neal have made this sacrifice for nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, with great effort and pain - Neal’s last words and desperate plan still echoing in her mind -, Emma opens her eyes.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Starla</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry I've been lax on my posting schedule. I've been traveling for a bit and won't be back to my normal schedule for another week. But I know I left on a bit of a cliff-hanger, so I wanted to post something.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Starla!” Lily screams, scattering her basket of freshly washed laundry across the floor as she runs to her daughter, seizing on the floor surrounded by a strange glowing light. “Baby what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kneels to the floor, scooping her white-eyed daughter into her arms and rocking her gently. She doesn’t know what to do. But she knows Emma would have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell happened?!” Carl demands, having come running at the sound of her scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing!” Lily protests as her baby is ripped from her arms, lifted into the air by her husband. “I found her this way. Carl, please, put her down! Please, I don’t know what to do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Carl isn’t listening as he carries their child toward the door, anger causing his grip to tighten around the little girls arms as she continues to shiver, the light from her chest growing brighter by the second, illuminating the little purple bruises left on her fragile arms by her father’s impatient fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carl, what are you doing?” Lily begs as he carries her out of her room, eyes fixed on the front door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something I should have done a long time ago,” he hisses. “Starla belongs in an asylum, not here in the house. I’m taking her to get the help she needs!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Lily pleads, scrambling after her husband as she tries to grab for his arms, his clothes, anything to keep her daughter within her sight. “Carl, no! She doesn’t belong in one of those places!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma?” the little girl begins to chant, at first a question, shifting slowly into a demand. “Emma? Emma! Emma!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily is gasping in panic as Carl’s rage flares, disappearing through the front door of the house, letting it slam loudly behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell did that witch do to you!?” Carl growls, opening the back door to the car and throwing Starla in unceremoniously. “What the hell did she do to my family?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes the car a moment to start as Carl cusses and grumbles at the slow-moving engine. After a minute or two it finally turns over and flares just like his anger. But as he puts the car in reverse and aims it toward the end of their gravel drive, he is forced to stop dead in his tracks. There is a figure blocking his way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out of the car!” Lily screams, near hysterical as she waves the family shotgun at the windshield. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be a fool,” he warns as his hands grip the wheel tighter, considering how easy it would be to tap the gas and knock her out of his way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will not take my daughter from me,” she announces, steadying the gun against her chest as her voice levels out, calm confidence replacing her panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t deserve your daughter anymore, not after what you and Emma did,” Carl warns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily racks the gun, the satisfying shuffle of a bullet sliding into the chamber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe you should watch your mouth for once, Carl,” she announces as she takes another confident step toward the vehicle and her beautifully glowing daughter in the backseat. “Now get out of the car!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frightened at the steel in Lily’s voice, Carl is forced to obey, stepping gingerly out of the driver’s seat with his hands raised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you going to do, Lily?” he goads, taking a menacing step forward. “You goin' to shoot me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gun quivers in her hands, she takes another step back as he continues to advance, his hands no longer raised in placid surrender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carl stop,” she insists, but he keeps advancing. “Carl, I don’t want to hurt you. Just give me Starla back and everything will be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But something has changed within the car. Starla’s glow ceased, her eyes open wide as she looks out at the world around her - half expecting that the back of the car had been a dream. Expecting to see signs of a storm like the one she had just witnessed in her mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead what little Starla sees is her parents screaming accusations in the driveway, her father advancing menacingly on her mother as he uses colorful language. Her mother quivering in fear, the loaded gun still held between them, no longer a threat - but protection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they think that Starla can’t understand their words because she has none of her own -  but she can. She understands every last word as her father calls Lily a monster, accuses her of all that is wrong in their lives, counts Starla as one of those wrong things. And she understands as Lily retorts, as she cries over the woman both she and her daughter have come to love like family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Starla, eager for the argument to stop, steps out of the car, both parents turning expectantly to her with panic and anger on their faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Starla, go back inside now,” Lily coaxes, the gun aimed at the ground as she speaks softly to her daughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Girl, you come here!” Carl demands, pointing at the ground next to his feet. “Come see who your mama really is! How she wants to break up our family!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave her be,” Lily sobs. “She has nothing to do with this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Starla, frightened and confused, makes her way over to her mother. She knows she should go inside, but she’s afraid and she just wants to hold her mother’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily turns, shifting the gun completely into her left hand as she reaches her right to comfort her daughter. And in that moment Carl lunges, grabs for the gun with determination and rage as he tries to wrestle it free from her hand - forces pressure into her fingers which are still resting on the trigger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gun goes off, the reverberation of the shot echoed in Lily’s panicked scream as both their eyes turn - as if in slow motion - to follow the sight of the barrel pointed directly at the only thing both of them could still love and agree on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Starla stands, a tad shocked as the gun explodes toward her chest - instinctually reaching out her hand as Emma had that morning at the lake, pushing out with all her power against the oncoming projectile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the bullet ricochets wildly, pushed back by Starla’s budding magic - right into the chest of the man holding the gun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole thing happens in a matter of seconds, and Lily is forced come to terms with the fact that she has just shot at her daughter, switching gears just as quickly when she notices the blood starting to sprout from the hole in Carl’s chest. Her husband slumps to the ground. He is dead, she knows, before he even hits the gravel driveway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as Starla turns to stare at her father in horror, Lily sweeps her daughter up in her arms, checking for scratches and bruises that just aren’t there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither understand what has just happened, but both know it has something to do with Emma.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Here Comes The End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Emma wakes up, feeling very much confused as she takes in the ruins of the FBI building. Without realizing it, her magic had torn bricks from walls, popped the bulbs in the lights, turned drywall to dust. The floors are littered with debris, the whole building startlingly silent. The kind of silence that only follows death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there is a lot of death. The agent who had been torturing her, his assistant with the chloroform bottle, through the doorway she can see a few other officers who must have come running to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And at the end of the hallway she sees her family, her friends, tossed in a pile, looking broken and still. In a panic, she rips the wires still attached to her temples free, the metal cuffs that had previously held her already melted away into little pools of silver on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her bare feet leave footprints in the drywall dust of the hallways as she gets out of her seat and sprints to the heroes laying crumpled at the end of the hall. Her heart beats faster, propelling her forward in a panic as she hopes she is not too late. Like she wasn’t too late with Starla.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can only hope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mom,” she whispers as she crouches down over Mary Margaret and the heroes begin to stir without her assistance. The pile of limbs begins to untangle as all three sit up and assess their wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or two sit up and assess wounds, Mary Margaret throws her arms around Emma’s neck, pulling her to the ground with the rest of them as she squeezes her daughter tight, relief pounding through her heart that her daughter remembers her. Her daughter <em>remembers!</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Mary Margaret stops squeezing long enough for Emma to turn and offer a weak smile to Killian and Rumple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is everyone alright?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Physically, or emotionally?” Rumple shoots back, dusting his suit as he reaches for his cane to prop himself up off the floor - the first of the three to stand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re alive, Swan,” Killian says, offering her a warm smile as he pulls her into a hug - far more tender than Mary Margaret’s had been. “I knew you wouldn’t kill us all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, well, I had my doubts," Rumple mumbles, more to himself than his companions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So…” Killian says, pulling away and casting his eyes toward the hole in the wall. “If Emma is fine… why is that still there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two more sets of eyes turn to follow his gaze to where a giant storm - white hot magic surrounded by wind and rain - is growing on the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one notices the third set of eyes, Rumple’s eyes - looking around for his son. Completely alone for the first time in three years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zelena was, after all these years, quite adept at spotting magic. Then again, you didn’t have to be when it took the form of a cyclone, tearing around a little farm house in the middle of nowhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She recognized right away what it was - and more importantly, she knew the heroes left on her bucket list would gather there to try and help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cyclone, the little girl that Emma had accidentally awakened magic within, was of little concern to Zelena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But finally getting rid of those six pesky heroes who kept messing with her plans - now that was something she was very interested in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She walks over to her hotel mirror with a sickening grin, waving her hand over the glass to call forth an image of an old friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mal, dearest, are you ready for the end?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The remaining witch, still mourning the loss of her two sisters, glares angrily back through the glass. Sharp canines bite at blood red lips as she growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When and where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma knows exactly where that storm is. She doesn’t have to call ahead, doesn’t have to get into the car, Emma knows without a doubt that the storm is surrounding Starla - who is as emotionally conflicted as she was moments before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is only confirmed when she is hit with a blinding pain behind her eyes, like a migraine flashing into her field of vision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Help me!” she hears Starla cry, sees the little round cherub face pop into her mind in pain. “Help me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma doesn’t understand what happened at the lake that day, but she knows that she and Starla are connected. That this is very real and completely magical. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bad kind of magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She clutches at her temple as Mary Margaret and Killian begin to bicker over a plan of action. Mary Margaret wants to go back and fetch David. Killian thinks they don’t have time. The bickering grows louder, as Emma’s headache does too, and so she is unnoticed - or so she thinks - as she slips back down the stairs and out into the parking lot, surveying the cars for an easy target.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once a car thief, always a car thief, eh?” she hears the familiar lilt of Mr. Gold's accent, catching her just as she is about to reach through an open window and pop open the car door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have a problem with it?” she asks, her brow raised as the lock clicks open and she sits inside, beginning to fumble with the dash to expose wires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all,” he chuckles, lowering himself into the passenger seat. “You know Neal taught me how to hotwire a car a couple days ago. It was, I’ll admit, exhilarating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She winces at the mention of his name. Turns back to her task, crossing the wires until the engine turns over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, he’s really gone forever, isn’t he?” Rumple asks, his gaze soft as it falls on her. Sympathetic almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That bastard,” she sighs, chuckling softly along with The Dark One. “He traded his life for all of ours. Again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple sighs. “What a show-off - he has always been kind of dramatic. I have no clue where he gets it from!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit in silence, both thinking of the enormous loss sitting between them - the boy that Rumple lost reflected in the man Emma was missing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he say anything… for me?” Rumple finally asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma nods. “He asked for a favor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She watches Rumple's eyes grow round - the only indication he is listening - as she explains Neal’s last request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Swan - are you sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says firmly. “But I can’t. I have to help Starla and Lily. So I need you to. He said you would.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. I probably wouldn’t be much help out at the farm anyway. We all know that is where Zelena is coming for us. And if she’s still got my dagger - I doubt it will work here, but on the off chance it does, I should be far away from it. Anyway, all these years I’ve blamed myself for how Bae grew up, it should be me who does this for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, smiling as he gets out of the car, replaced quickly by Killian sliding into the passenger seat, Mary Margaret opening the back door and sliding in with a proud grin. “Got room for two more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s he going?” Killian asks as they both watch Rumple disappear down the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unfinished business. Not his,” Emma says with a sigh, and if she’s not mistaken, she thinks she sees a glimmer of recognition in Killian’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then God speed to him,” the pirate grins. “So where are we headed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to go back to the farm. Something is wrong with Starla. She is causing all this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” Killian asks as Mary Margaret reaches around the seat, her fingers gripping comfortably at Emma’s shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She drowned. And I brought her back to life with magic. Somehow, I must have given some to her. Or awakened some that was already there. Either way, this is my fault and I owe it to her and Lily to fix it. And I need your help to fix it. I’m scared. But I know I can fix this - with my family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian shrugs, “Well, it might be nice to do one more good thing before we all die horribly at Zelena’s hands. Why not go save the little tyke?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to stop for David and Henry first,” Mary Margaret insists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s too dangerous, Zelena will be waiting for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Mary Margaret continues. “That’s why we’re going to need them. And if we are successful - if we do defeat Zelena and find our way back home - we’ll need them with us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time the car, stuffed to the brim with all five of the Storybrooke residents, pulls up to the gravel driveway leading to the Page farm, the storm has turned from just a whirling mass of wind and rain to sleet and hail. Ice assaults the windshield as the tires fight for purchase, Emma steering the car toward Lily and Starla, unsure of what she will do when she gets there. Lightning cracks above the barn - clouds gathering at the epicenter of the storm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think whatever is going on is causing this storm?” Killian asks as Emma puts the car in park and everyone pours out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d say the correlation is pretty high,” Henry mumbles under his breath, still bitter at the pirate, and the others, for not showing up on time. David squeezes his hand encouragingly as the little Charming family climb out of the backseat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before Emma can even finish climbing out of the old station wagon they’ve stolen, Lily is running out of the barn, gun brandished as she shouts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get back! Get back in your car and drive away from here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily, it’s me!” Emma screams over the roar of the wind, snowflakes sticking to her eyelashes as she raises her hands in tacit surrender. “Lily, I’m here to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just get the hell back!” Lily shouts again, dropping the shotgun to her side as she racks it, raising it quickly back to point at the crowd standing in her driveway. Now twice as deadly as before, just a flinch of that trigger and anyone without Emma’s magical abilities would be left examining a gaping wound from scattered buckshot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily, what’s wrong?” Emma asks, inching forward and looking for the softness she had come to rely on in the woman she loved. Behind Emma, the rest of her family freezes, eyes watching Lily like a frightened animal - unsure of the damage she was capable of in her panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With those words, it is like Lily can finally see who she is talking to. Her shoulders relax - but she doesn’t drop her gun - as her breath catches in her throat trying to think of a way to explain to Emma what is wrong. Trying to think of words that aren’t laced with hatred and blame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Carl’s dead,” she whispers, looking distrustfully at the four figures gathered behind Emma. “He tried to take Starla and she… she tossed him aside like a rag doll. Same thing you did to those policemen. So why don’t <em>you</em> tell me what’s going on here Emma?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma shakes her head in disbelief as the storm surges behind her. The temperature drops, a large piece of hail denting the hood of the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do to my daughter!?” Lily demands as Emma stares speechless at the destruction raging around her. This was never what she had wanted, but if only she had remembered sooner, if only she had learned to control her magic a little better, if only…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have time for this,” Killian says, stepping forward to Emma’s side, frost forming around the tip of his hook. “Zelena will be here any minute, and if we don’t get to that little girl, it won’t matter because all she is going to find is five very lifelike snowmen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily,” Emma whispers, approaching the woman with the outstretched gun. “This is my family. We can help. But you have to bring us to Starla.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>Bring</em> is a generous word. All eyes fall on the barn behind her, glowing with magic as the wind and sleet rip at the wooden boards threatening to pull the whole building apart, just like Emma had at the FBI building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Neal isn't here to save her now - this she must do on her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily,” Emma amends, “you have to let us in to Starla.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Swan,” Killian growls, “If she won’t let us through we’re going to have to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t finish his sentence as he takes a bold step forward and is met with a cold gun barrel right to the center of his forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take another step forward,” Lily goads. “I dare you. This gun has already killed one man today, it won’t hesitate to kill another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily,” Emma says, stepping forward boldly to take the gun in her hands, feeling the cold metal stick to her fingertips as warmth seeps out from her skin. She is desperate to get inside that barn - the cold is getting worse by the second. “I know this sounds crazy, but there isn’t much time to explain. I love you - that much has always been true. And I’m here to help. I wouldn’t lie to you about that. I remember who I am now, and where I’m from, they call me The Savior. I’m here to do just that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily looks at her skeptically across the span of inches between them. Panic switching to pain in her eyes as she nods slowly, turning back to lead them inside the barn.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Flying Monkeys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Inside the barn, the air is so thick with magic that the others - Lily included- crowd around the edge of the little building, trembling and shaking with the boards themselves. The wind swirls around them. It is a palpable force that Emma has to push through to get to the center, but she is using her own magic to part the current of Starla's magic, leaving just enough space for her to step into the eye of the storm and crouch down next to the little girl at the center of it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Starla,” she whispers, brushing back a strand of the child’s dark brown hair. “Starla, it’s Emma, can you hear me in there. I know you can’t answer me, but nod if you can hear me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little girl doesn’t move at all, still curled in a little ball as magical energy ripples out of her, radiating like an unstable bomb. Her breath is coming in little ragged breaths and her whole body appears to be vibrating, as if gripped by a mild seizure. Emma wonders if this is what she had looked like to Neal - frightened and fragile. In this moment Emma is gripped with doubt - is this an after-effect of her own magical fit, still connected to Starla after that day at the lake, or is this something more? A little girl coming to terms with the fact that something inhuman inside her has just killed it's own father?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re afraid,” Emma whispers, pulling the little girl into her lap. “I was afraid, too. But can you listen to me? Please, please let me know you’re listening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand that grips at Emma’s fingertips is small and cold, but there is enough pressure in that squeeze to let Emma know someone in there is listening. She suspects, someone in there has been listening for a lot longer than anyone has ever given her credit for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma lets her magic warm in her palm, thinking of sunshine and beaches. Of hot leather seats inside a yellow bug, of Tallahassee dreams, of hot chocolate with cinnamon on top. She pools all that warmth there in her hands and begins to rub them over Starla’s little, frail fingers. Slowly, their pale blue tinge shrinks away and a blush of warm blood causes her skin to turn slightly pink. Healthy and alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can hear Lily gasp from the corner of the barn, where she and Henry are holding onto each other for comfort. Strangers clinging to the humanity that remains around them. The Charmings crouch in the other corner, watching impatiently as their daughter tries her best to live up to her fate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian stands, hook and hand both gripping the doorway as he looks out over the field. The only one who hasn’t forgotten how they got here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And his eyes are reward with a puff of green smoke far out on the edge of the field. Three figures appear, shrouded at first by the swirling snowstorm and the lingering iridescent smoke. But as the soft green settles away, the snow pushed back by a much more powerful magic, the three figures solidify into three women - all decked in black. Postures rigid, angry, and confident.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to do this,” Emma continues to coax as Starla’s shaking lessons, the temperature around them warming ever so slightly. But not fast enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guys, I’m afraid we’ve got company,” Killian warns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are they?” Charming asks as he and Mary Margaret appear to flank the captain, Henry pushing for a place between them all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, the red head is the witch who brought us here,” Killian growls at the stupidity of the question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the blonde is the woman who tried to kill Ray and I,” Mary Margaret supplies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the brunette is Killian’s girlfriend,” Henry adds the last introduction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ex-girlfriend,” Killian corrects with a glare. “I don’t suppose Milah and I are on the best terms right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think the semantics matter, all three of them look angry,” Charming retorts before turning back to face Lily - who is torn between joining them in the doorway and watching Emma try to coax some calm out of her daughter. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any more shotguns just lying around?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head, swallowing hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, she wants me alive,” Henry whispers. “Let me go see if I can settle this. Talk her out of it one last time. The rest of you - guard Emma!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like no one questioned Emma when she said she had to go to the farm, not a soul dares to question Henry as he steps back out into the snow, making his way toward the witch and her friends. This is his fight. It always has been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes it a few feet before a dark shadow falls over his shoulder, the sound of boots crunching through the snow joining his pace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you thought I’d let you go alone,” Killan says, resting his good hand on the boy's shoulder, “Well… I wouldn’t blame you. But in case things go south…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry nods as Killian trails off, unable to finish that sentence. What exactly would Killian do if things went south? How far was he willing to go to make amends with Baelfire’s spirit?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two approach the crowd at the edge of the field, snow melted in a verdant patch of green around them - their own little bubble of protection from the childish and unstable magic wreaking havoc around them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That fresh summer air, sure is nice,” Zelena grins as Killian and Henry stumble out of the snow with as much swagger as two frightened little boys can muster. “Don’t you just love this warm weather?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Makes me sick,” Milah mumbles as Mal grunts in agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Zelena,” Henry barks with as much confidence as his voice can muster, a slight crack on the edge of her name giving his nerves away. “What do you want now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zelena looks confused between her two companions, feigning surprise as she turns back to the little boy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To kill you and your family, I thought that was quite clear. You didn’t take the deal-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You compromised that deal,” Killian reminds her with a glare toward Milah. “You set us up to fail.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You say to-May-toe… I say to-MAH-toe. You set them up to fail when you chose your own neck over theirs. And anyway, it’s not about me anymore. Your family has caused my very dear friends here quite a lot of pain. I intend to let them got their revenge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milah,” Killian begs. “What about what we had. What about what Baelfire would have wanted-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not speak that name to me,” she hisses, eyes seeming to burn with rage at something Killian isn’t aware of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there no chance we can work this out amicably?” Henry asks, met with only a small, smug shake of the witch’s head. “So where does this leave us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With a five second head start,” she grins, teeth biting with glee and hunger at too-red lips. “I’d start running back to your family now... if I were you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian laughs, harsh and mirthless as he gently nudges Henry behind him with his good hand. “I don’t like your chances, witch. There's six of us and only three of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, you’re right,” she says, reaching out her arms as green smoke begins to swirl again, a small smile playing across Maleficent’s lips as Mialah’s jaw drops open, taking in the sight of the rift in the sky. “Let’s change that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And out from that green portal swarm monkeys. First tens, then hundreds of them with leathery, bat-like wings screeching at the top of their lungs as they swoop and surge forward toward the small circle of warm air where their master stands with her arms raised. The noise in enough to get everyone's attention, even those still huddled inside the rickety barn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What now?” Killian whispers as the swarm grows closer by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fight and die now, or run and die later?” Henry offers lamely up. “Do you have a preference?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Later sounds good to me,” Killian says, grabbing the boy by the arm and turning to sprint back to the relative safety of the barn and their companions, the sound of howling, screaming monkeys close on their heals. And as they run, Zelena’s callous laughter reverberates, as if carried by magic, around the little farm - even more chilling then the slowly ceasing snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back at the barn, everything inside stands still as Emma calmly coaxes the little girl back to herself, tiny brown eyes opening slowly as the wind begins to cease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with the wind dying down, the sound of Zelena’s army of flying monkeys picks up, and Emma knows she doesn’t have much time. She grabs Lily’s wrist, tugging her closer to Starla, presses her hand to the ground beneath them, her magic sending the two tumbling through the floor of the barn into the storage cellar below, closing the hole in the floor just as quickly before standing up to join her parents, who had both managed to find broken pieces of wood around the barn - jagged and rough - but a decent replacement for swords in this mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was time to end this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises her hand in front of them, a protective force field of glimmering white rising up to keep her family safe. If they just stayed behind her she might be able to handle this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as her eyes adjust to the blinding white of the snow, she sees two dark figures sprinting across the field, barley feet ahead of the swarm of flying monkys. Henry and Killian. And they aren’t going to make it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sends the fore field forward in a wave with a push of her hand, watching the magic ripple through the air as it knocks back the first couple monkeys in the horde. Killian and Henry don’t even flinch as the magic rumbles over them, ducking behind a parked tractor for cover and to catch their breath. It won’t last long as the monkeys Emma has knocked from the sky regain their feet, opening and testing the wings that had failed them, batting them impatiently as they prepare to take flight again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow and David rush forward, using their homemade wooded swords to knock a few more back as they duck behind a group of hay bales, forming a triangle of heroes - Emma in the rear at the barn door, Henry and Killian huddled to the left, Mary Margaret and David crouching together to the right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone behind me!” Emma orders, raising her hands as another wall of magic begins to ripple out of them, her brow furrowed in concentration. But she still has a while yet before the magic grows to large enough proportions to protect them, and it is clear - Killian and Henry are too close to the front lines to make a run for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Henry snaps as he feels Killian tugging at his wrist, the little leather cuff his mother gave him sliding free. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Taking a risk,” Killian says, slapping it closed around his own wrist before grabbing Henry by the back of his shirt and shoving him forward towards his grandparents to their right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Henry stutters as he stumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get him to safety!” Killian screams, pushing Henry into the clearing behind him and then stepping up boldly in front of the wave of upcoming monkeys. This had better work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crosses his wrists, raising them up in an X in front of his face and closes his eyes in a grimace - just in case his gamble doesn’t pay out. After all, he’s never been a very lucky man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, Mary Margaret and David grab onto Henry, tugging him forward as fast as they can to make a break for the house. It is closer cover than running for Emma and the door hanging slightly ajar gives them an easy entrance as they pull the struggling boy inside, covering him with their own bodies as they shrink away from the window, the sound of angry screeching monkeys covering any sort of noise Killian might make to confirm - or deny - his survival. They shudder at the thought as they pull each other close, each still gripping their homemade weapons in their free hands. They’ve always known, if they were going to die, it would be together - protecting their family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out in the field, the first few monkeys reach the pirate, swooping down on him like sharks on a wounded swimmer, teeth and nails clawing at him in blind fury. But as the first reach him, they shatter into puffs of green dust, drifting down around him like sand, and he grins, holding his arms out a little more confidently as the approaching monkeys screech to a halt, staring at him confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. It had seemed odd to him, that Zelena didn’t want to kill Henry - wanted to raise him as her own back in Storybrooke - knowing the potential he had to foil every evil plot that ever existed. It had seemed odd, because it was. Zelena didn’t lack the WANT to hurt Henry, she lacked the ABILITY. Regina’s leather cuff had shielded him from any and all magic. And the monkeys were made of magic. Obviously not all of them - one had still bitten Henry that night at the abandoned house - but Killian had gambled that Zelena didn't have hundreds of real monkeys at her disposal. And he'd been right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a few more cautiously approach him, standing boldly in the field, he turns his head over his shoulder to smile at Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s end this, shall we, Swan?” he calls, catching the curve of her grin - no longer a seductive pull to him, but one of great pride as she nodded thanks for the important piece of information he had just given her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monkeys were made of magic. She didn’t need to protect from them like she would blunt force. She could unravel them - like she had just done with Starla’s storm. Like Neal had done for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She reaches her hands out, taking a few bold steps forward as the pirate inches back toward her with his arms still raised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a flash of blinding white light, Emma sends  her magic forward, unraveling and ripping at the spells that make up Zelena’s simian army - a rush of power pouring forward, echoing in the empty air as each of the monkeys it reaches goes up in a cloud of green. She watches them turn, try to retreat back toward their mistress at the edge of the field, her magic chasing them down and pulling them apart, scattering green dust across the ground as it shimmers and sparks into nothingness. Only the three woman on the edge of the field remain untouched, Maleficent holding her arms high as a glittering purple bubble stands protectively around them - Emma’s magic and the green dust of Zelena’s exploding monkeys settling around their feet - leaving them untouched inside Maleficent’s protection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And after that wave of energy, the loud rush leaving blood pounding in Emma’s ears, the field goes utterly silent. Completely still. Their odds have shifted again. And the heroes have the advantage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David and Mary Margaret make their way over to the window of the house, looking out at the field where Emma and Killian stand - facing the three woman cloaked in magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very nice,” Zelena claps, but her heavy breathing gives her away - exhausted from the sheer force of the spell casting, he energy too depleted for another similar effort. “Now it’s our turn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And before they can catch their breath, Mal surges forward. An explosion twice as large as Emma’s - rich purple like royal blood - coating the field in the darkness of night as the force knocks the wind from the heroes' throats -rips the air right out from their lungs. The tractor Killian had previously been crouching behind tumbles through the sky, knocking against him as it pins him under it’s excruciating weight. Emma crashes back into the barn wall a couple feet behind her, digging in her heels and holding out her palms with enough magic to slow the effect of the force, but not overcome it. Killian, not so lucky, realizes that the bracelet might protect him from magic, but the tractor on top of him is very real, very heavy, and not at all protected against from his borrowed jewlery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back in the house the windows shatter, sending shards of glass flying toward the family of three ducking for cover behind the couch - drywall and mortar dust landing around them like the snow that had just been falling outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well done,” Zelena congratulates Mal, as she steps back with a devilish grin. Then, turning to Milah, “I’ll take the Charmings if you’ll go dig that magical brat out of the barn basement. Mal can handle the rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Milah hisses with a growl. “Mal can go find the housewife and her offspring - The woman who killed my son is mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes fall angrily to Emma Swan, doing her best to hold herself in a standing position against the rickety barn.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Lily</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Everyone alright?” Mary Margaret asks, looking between her husband and her grandson as they brush the dust from their clothes and push the couch back against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” David assures her. “Go check on Emma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret nods, dashing out the front door as David finds a broken chair leg, snaps it with the heel of his boot and hands it to Henry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you remember what your father taught you,” he says with a grin at the little boy who nods bravely up at him. “This isn’t over yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zelena doesn’t bother to announce herself at all as she steps inside the back door off the kitchen and sends a wave of magic hurtling toward the fireplace. Henry sees it before David, pushing his grandfather out of the way, but catching a shoulder full of bricks himself as the entire mantle - and some of the wall behind it - collapses on top of him, dragging him under the debris. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David doesn’t have time to check on him, instead having to jump forward, a thrust of his sword aimed for Zelena’s chest. She chuckles, a wave of her hand and the homemade sword is knocked from his and sent clattering across the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you so determined to kill us?” David hisses as he takes a cautious step beck, his eyes landing on Henry who appears to be struggling - not unconscious - under the pile of brick and wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you’re the only ones who can stop me. Really, it’s nothing personal. Not against you, at least. I just can’t run the risk that The Charming Family will do what they do best and break my curse. And if I’m being honest, this is getting rather tedious. The sooner you’re all dead, the sooner I can pop back to the correct time in Storybrooke and enjoy the fruits of my labor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case, I guess you’re out of luck,” David grunts, throwing his weight into his punch as his bare-knuckle boxing training from Jack Ruby kicks in. But Zelena catches his fist in her hand, using the momentum to spin out of the way, as if the two of them are dancing. He pulls his fist back, switching his weight to his back foot as he presses his opposite hand forward, but Zelana ducks away, spins back once his momentum is spent to land her own dainty knuckles with cartilage-crunching force against the bridge of his nose, blood spurting down his face like a fountain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That all you’ve got Prince Charming? Heard you were a better fighter than this,” she goads, another fist to his stomach. Suddenly David regrets making fun of Killian for being beaten by this witch. She really can hold her own. A knee to the groin and he is doubled over on his knees, breathing deeply as pain ricochets up his spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cracks her neck, stepping forward with a grin as a burst of magic sends him sprawling backward through the wall, the entire left side of the house crumbling as he rockets through the air back toward the barn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when she turns back to the pile of bricks where the fireplace used to be, Henry isn’t there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret is halfway to her daughter when she hears a sharp whistle from behind, turning to face a tall woman in leather boots, chocolate curls pulled back into a tight ponytail showing the severity of her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, princess,” the woman says with a coy wave, mocking as she steps forward. “Well isn’t this fitting - mother against mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” Mary Margaret asks as she braces herself, homemade sword in her hands raised in a defensive posture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, sorry,” The woman coos, not halting her steady pace forward. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Milah - Baelfire’s mother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice to meet you?” Mary Margaret guesses, even though it is clear the opposite is true. Milah shakes her head ruefully, not bothering with any more words as she reaches Snow White and throws a punch with all her weight behind it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret knocks her wrist away with the broken piece of wood in her hands, enough force behind the blow to leave bruises. The cracking sound alone is enough to make the shorter woman flinch, but Milah simply rolls her wrist back, bracing herself in a fighting stance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like you,” Milah grins. “A woman after my own heart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand strikes Snow viper-fast, causing her to stumble backward, bringing the wooden sword up like a baseball bat as it crashes into Milah’s shoulder in retaliation. The pirate queen bites her lip on impact, blood from the split  in her lip coating her teeth as she steps forward, all pretense of politeness dropped as she wrenches the wooden sword out of Mary Margaret’s hand and backhands her hard enough to send her sprawling in the snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is the the best you have?” Mary Margaret laughs as she pushes herself back to her feet, lunging forward with another hit that lands on Milah’s shoulder - she flinches, jumps back, throws herself forward again. “I fought the Evil Queen for half my life and you think I can’t take a silly little slap?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the two aren’t slapping anymore, they are grappling - wrestling. As Milah drives her knuckles into the princess’s stomach, Snow kicks at the pirate’s knee. Both are tumbling and rolling through the snow in no time, blood from Milah’s split lip leaving little pinpricks of red in fresh snow. The sharp point of Milah’s heel catches Snow in the ankle and sends her rolling backward, tugging the other woman off balance with her as she continues to fight on her way down into the cold ice of the ground.  An exchange of energies as Snow manages to drive her elbow into Milah’s jaw, rolling the taller woman under her weight as she pins her to the ground with her knees and brings the flat of her forearm against her throat.</span>
</p><p><span>“You’ll take your last breath before you hurt my daughter,” Mary Margaret warns, but with one last twist, like an eel in the current, Milah has rolls to the side and quickly has Mary Margaret </span>pressed <span>on</span> her back - is looming over her with rage burning in cloudy green eyes.</p><p>
  <span>“Unfortunately for you, no one was there to show my son the same protection,” she says as her fingers squeeze tightly around Mary Margaret’s neck, air clotting and slowing in her throat as she struggles to gasp in enough oxygen to keep the edge of her vision from going black. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hands are no longer fighting Milah, but clutching at her own throat as her vision begins to fade, the world going dim and dizzy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing she sees before she closes her eyes is Milah, standing and striding over to where Emma waits at the barn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mary Margaret!” David screams, managing to free himself from the debris of the wall as his wife goes limp in front of him. He is forced between the desire to run to her and his need to save Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Emma is strong. Emma is their daughter. And Emma can take care of herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he pulls his wife to him, shaking her rigorously as he tries to force breath back into her lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, no,” he whimpers to himself. “Wake up Mary Margaret. You need to wake up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has been here before, but that does not make the stillness of her features any less painful as he presses his lips to hers, forcing life back into her. “Please, just take a breath!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And finally, after what feels like hours, she takes a breath, sputtering back to life in his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank God,” he breaths pulling her closer as she gulps down air into starving lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But their time together doesn’t last long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is interrupted by shouting - Killian’s - loudly announcing he is completely trapped under the overturned tractor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone! Anyone! Fucking help me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian is desperately tugging at his leg, the only part of himself he hasn’t managed to free from the metal death trap, as the Charmings arrive. David bites his lip and resists the urge to make a joke about the possibility of needing a peg leg in the future. Instead, he and Snow lean their full weight against opposite sides of the machine, lifting as best they can to give Killian the room to squirm out from underneath it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What took you so long?” he growls as he pushes himself to his feet, dusting the damp snow from his leather coat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it matter? We’re here now,” David says, clapping him on the back. “Operation Zero, just like Henry said. We’re undividable!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Operation Zero!” Killian says with a grin, retuning David’s friendly gesture with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guys,” Mary Margaret warns, “Has anyone seen Henry and Emma?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re around here somewhere,” Killian says, looking over his shoulder to where the door to the farm house - and it’s left wall - hang open and empty. No child or witch to be seen. Likewise, Emma and Milah have disappeared from in front of the barn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whole scene feels almost peaceful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My guess is they’re about to be murdered by your ex-girlfriend,” David responds. “Let’s get to the barn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” Killian insists, suddenly understanding what Henry has been trying to say all along. Because Henry was right - they can talk their way out of this. But it is not Zelena they need to talk to. “No one hurts Milah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, she just choked the hell out of my wife,” David growls. “I think we can hurt her a little bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Killian insists. “It's time someone told her the real truth about Baelfire. About how he really died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma?” Lily whispers as she hears footsteps on the cellar stairs, pushing Starla behind her as she emerges cautiously to see if the danger has passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is not Emma standing there, framed in the light from the blindingly white world above. It is a beautiful blonde in a pinstripe grey pantsuit, curls pinned perfectly in place to match the curve of her grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who the hell are you?” Lily asks, taking a step back as she makes sure to put herself between this new woman and her daughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman opens her mouth to say something - something clever - ready to imitate the slow drawl Lily has developed after years of living in Texas. But her eyes fall quickly to the birthmark Lily is rubbing anxiously at her wrist. And they stay locked there, unable to move for a very long moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m your… you’re my…” the woman struggles through her words. “Lily?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. An Abrupt and Sudden Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Henry arrives in the barn moments after Milah, crouching behind haybales as he watches her approach, unflinching, toward Emma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlike the fight between her and Mary Margaret, filled with banter and pulled punches, Milah leaps at the blonde with rage - snarls and growls as the two crash into each other, nails and knuckles digging into flesh as the two grapple for what is clearly life or death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop-” Emma manages to choke out as Milah brings her knee up into the Savior’s stomach, pushing her back against the far wall as her fingers reach again for her opponent’s throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t feel so good, does it?” she hisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma growls back, a noise so feral and frantic as she uses her magic to force Milah off of her, sending her sprawling across the barn as she lands with a painful thud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?” Emma asks, scrambling quickly to her feet as she rushes over to loom over Milah. “What are you waiting for? Get up and let’s finish what you started!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Milah simply shakes her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” She swallows the blood from where the gash on her lip has reopened, pressing the meat of her hand into the barn floor to lift herself back to her feet. “This isn’t going to be quick. You’re going to suffer, like he did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like who?” Emma pants, raising her fists in a boxer’s stance and waiting for Milah’s next attack. “Lady, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My son!” Milah shouts as she lunges forward. “Baelfire!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma’s eyes light up as her hands fall away from her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The name hurts more than any punch Milah could have thrown. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He loved you, and you killed him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma’s whole face falls. The sentiment is wrong - but the words are true enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neal,” Emma sobs, the pain in her voice raw, so honest it gives Milah pause. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want him to die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t deserve to die!” Milah shouts, lunging forward again at the blonde. “If ever there was anyone who deserved to live, it was Bae!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” Emma concedes as she let’s the other woman’s hands grab her, pull her violently close. Whatever Milah plans on doing, Emma knows she deserves it. Because Milah is right. He didn’t deserve to die. “But listen to me. He asked me to. He needed me to. He was in pain and a lot of good people were in danger. He died a hero - that’s what he’s always been. I killed him, but it wasn’t my choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not your choice, my ass,” Milah says, pushing Emma away with all her might, watching the blonde stumble and regain her footing a few feet from her foe, both still unaware of the little boy with Baelfire’s grey eyes watching them from the shadows. “Trust me, I’ve killed a lot of people in my day. It’s always personal, in one way or another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not listening to me!” Emma shouts in frustration. “It was personal! It was intimate! I was the only one who could do that for him, and he needed me to, he begged me to. But it wasn’t what I wanted! You’re not going to kill me, you love your son too much to kill the woman he died for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you bet your life on that?” Milah asks, stepping forward, the sound of a knife being pulled from a sheath reverberating in the rafters of the barn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait!” Henry shouts, stepping out from behind the hay bale, both sets of eyes turning to land on him - shifting from the anger and pain they had held moments before to something softer. The love of a mother, the one thing they both had in common. “You want to blame someone, blame Zelena!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would I blame Zelena?” Milah asks as Emma inches forward, trying to disarm Milah while she is distracted. To get the danger out of her hands before something can happen to Henry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because - she planted the information that got him killed. She forced Mr. Gold to absorb him like that. She cast the curse that he died trying to stop. He died to catch her. To stop her. To save everyone from her. And it was her magic that doomed him long before he ever reached our world. If you want to blame someone, blame Zelena.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop trying to muddy the waters,” Milah whispers, standing stock still, the only movement in the barn Emma’s slow creep toward the knife still glittering in her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just trying to tell you the truth, grandma,” Henry whispers, watching the woman’s heart break at the familial name. “It’s time someone finally did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Milah sobs. “You all let him die. This isn’t Zelena’s fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” David says from the doorway. Milah spins, watching the three approaching figures as they enter the barn. “You’re right, Snow and I wouldn’t help him and so he turned to desperate measures. But those desperate measures were named Zelena.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I might have let him out of my sights long enough to find his death,” Killian offered, “But Zelena is what he ended up finding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I might have killed him with my magic,” Emma offers through a voice thick with emotion, “But it was to end the pain of <em>Zelena’s</em> magic. He was in pain. And he was dead from the moment he met her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She lied to you, Milah,” Killian says, stepping forward as she raises the knife to kill the space between them. But he doesn’t seem to care. He’s been on the other side of many a blade, he’s just happy to be standing close to her again. “She ruined your life - your afterlife - the same way she’s ruined all of ours. You’re not like her - you’re one of us. One of the heroes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head as the group slowly encircles her, looking at her imploringly. Killian’s hand wraps gently around her wrist, letting the knife clatter to the floor as she lets her fingers grip at the hook on his other arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hero. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She couldn’t be. She’d always been one of the villains. She had died one of the villains. That wasn’t going to change now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen to me, Milah,” he implores, looking into her panicked, tear-filled eyes. “I trust you. I trust you aren’t going to hurt me. I trust that you loved your son so much it hurt to think about him. I trust that you’re trying to atone for your past mistakes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she hisses. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. You left me, Killian. I needed you to help avenge Baelfire, and you took off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I <strong>was</strong> avenging Baelfire. Do you think he’d want this? You think he’d want you killing the people he died to protect. If you have to blame someone, if you can’t blame Zelena, then blame me. Blame me because I took you away from a little boy who needed his mother. Blame me because if I’d never stepped into your life, he might have had a chance at a normal childhood. But you can’t blame Emma. Or anyone else in this barn. Because they loved him. As much as you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds good,” Milah whispers, her hand clamping tight around Killian’s wrist - around the handle of the knife she knows he keeps tucked up his sleeve. “I’ll blame you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s using you, Milah!” Emma shouts, drawing her attention away from Killian. “Zelena is using you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re wrong!” Milah hissed. “She is giving me the opportunity to move on. She’s giving me the chance to fix my mistake so I can move on with my afterlife! She’s my friend!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friends don’t murder each others sons,” David offered, all eyes falling annoyed on him. “Sorry, that… that sounded better in my head."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Milah wrinkles he nose in distaste, turning back to Killian. To the one man who has always been her lifeline in a stormy world. To the only person who isn’t going to regale her with that hero bullshit about a nice happy ending and friendship and sunshine and butterflies. The one man who can understand the pain she is going through - the chance Zelena has given her to fix it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me the truth, Killian,” she begs. “Please, for once, someone just tell me the truth!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Truth?” Killian asks, taking another cautious step forward so that the tips of his boots are pressed against hers. “The truth is Zelena is dangerous. The truth is you’re scared about what is going to happen after this is all over. Scared of going back to Hades. Scared even more that she’ll keep you with her in her new hellish regime. The truth is you wanted me to join you on her side so you didn’t have to be alone with all that fear. Because I know what it’s like to be afraid of the dangerous people I’m working with. But the difference is, Milah, I’m not working for the dangerous people anymore. I’m not one of the villains anymore. I changed. You can, too. Don’t become your ex-husband. That’s not what Bae would have wanted. And deep down, I know that you know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know me anymore, Killian,” she sniffles, but he just steps forward, pulling her to him so that their eyes are locked and the rest of the barn disappears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t I?” he whispers, pressing lips gently to her forehead as she trembles against him. “I know you love your family. I know that I can be that family. You just have to let me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Big green eyes sniffle up at him softly as she leans into the kiss. And she wants to let him. She really does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before she can say anything he is ripped from her arms, thrown backward against the wall with a splash of green smoke trailing after him. Suddenly the rest of the barn comes crashing back into sight. And Milah stands in the center - Emma, Henry, Snow and David forming a half circle around her - and in the space where Killian just stood, framed in the doorway, stands Zelena, her jaw clenched in anger, her hand held out to her side from where she had just sent Killian flying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killian!” Milah screams, darting forward as she drops to her knees over him, feeling desperately for a pulse in the pirate’s throat. It is there but it’s weak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, who is ready to see how this all plays out?” Zelana laughs as she steps into the barn. “The anticipation is killing me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I think I’m the one doing that,” comes a soft purr from behind her in the barn door, a tendril of purple magic reaching out and spearing the witch in her heart. She falls, clutching at her chest as blood begins to pour from between her fingers, shocked and unable to put the finale piece together before she slumps to the floor - dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maleficent stands behind her, one arm wrapped protectively around Lily’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the witch begins to disappear, swirling tendrils of green magic seeping out of her and twisting away, two objects clatter to the floor - a green crystal like the one she gave Henry and a long twisted dagger with The Dark One’s name scrawled across the front.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David is the only one who sees her move for it, shouts out to alert the others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The crystal!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is too late- Milah already has it wrapped in her fingers, is twisting at the top as she dives through a portal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop her!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killian catches Prince Charming mid-dive, tackling him back as the portal closes. Milah is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so is their only way home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I almost had her!” David screams as he pounds his first against Killian’s chest. “Why the hell did you stop me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would do that same for Snow,” Killian insists with a stupid grin. “We do silly things for the women we love, now don’t we, Charming?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. The End of Something Old</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Truce?” Henry asks, cautiously stepping forward toward Maleficent, unsure weather Lily is her ally or hostage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Truce,” she gins back, holding up her hands and gesturing for the dagger, which Henry picks up, holding it in his hands like it might break. It is heavier than he had imagined. Sturdier too. Like an actual weapon, not just a hallow stage prop meant to be filled with theatrics and magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you miss me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All eyes turn to see Rumple, sitting with his legs crossed at the back of the barn, dressed in his Storybrooke chic, though the cult leader tattoos still peek out from the edges of his sleeves. His grin is predatory - confident again. A man who has not only regained his purpose, but his power. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma!” Lily breaths, rushing forward - and, in Rumple’s opinion, completely ruining his entrance - wrapping the blonde in a tight hug as she breaths in the scent of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lily. Are you all right?” Emma finally asks when the embrace ends. “Where is Starla?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s still downstairs, she’s fine,” Lily assures her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever it is that I gave her, I can take it back,” Emma rushes to assure her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t take back what’s in her blood,” Maleficent says sadly. “You awoke what was already there, Emma. She’s flesh of my blood, that isn’t your magic coursing through her. But she will be fine. Lily and I will see to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple can take them home. Now that he has his magic back, with the help of Emma, the two of them can bring them back to Storybrooke. It’s only a matter of being ready. Of tying up loose ends. Emma is the first to leave the family to see to her affairs, Mary Margaret slipping away shortly after to retrieve the baby and say goodbye to Ray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finds Lily in the living room, Starla draped across her lap, sleeping peacefully as memories of today fade nicely into dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That offer…” Emma begins awkwardly, “To come back to Storybrooke-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t know how to say what she means. Is too used to the ones she loves leaving her to have exactly the right words for leaving them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortunately she doesn’t need them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going into the future with you,” Lily scoffs, no malice in the little huff of air, only a gentle sort of let down. And Emma is thankful for those words - thankful that Lily has also changed her mind so that she doesn’t have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma nods, sitting down on the edge of the couch - a comfortable distance between her and the other woman, memories of passionate kisses beginning to fade like dreams as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… are you planning to stay here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily laughs, looking around the destroyed living room, a pile of bricks where he fireplace used to be, the left wall open to reveal the barn - which is lilting dangerously to the side. An entire field of snow, frozen thick and solid in the middle of summer - it will still take a day or two to melt it all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. My mom and I are going to take Starla somewhere else, where she’ll be safe. We don’t know where yet… but we know we’re leaving, too. Besides, there aren’t a lot of good memories to be had here… not before you showed up at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope…” Emma begins, struggling for the right words to make her peace with the month she’s spent with Lily. The right way to provide her some closure, the same way Neal offered her closure - and something better - when he had left her back in the FBI building. “I hope the three of you become a family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily nods her appreciation. “I hope so, too.” And then after a long pause, gazing down at her daughter curled up in her lap. “It seems like crazy talk… magic and all this… I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. But now… Now it’s in my life forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get used to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, whatever you’re going back to… I hope it’s better than what you left. I’m sorry we can’t go with you, help you find out. But I just can’t risk Starla like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t owe me an apology, Lily. You’ve already given me more than enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lily smiles softly, shifting her weight to lean across the distance, stroking her hand gently over Emma’s cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma… I’m scared… for you… do you know what you’re doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not really. Not as much as she would have hoped. But she has an idea. A plan. She’s ready.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she lies. “Don’t worry about me. Starla needs you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma,” Lily whispers, placing her other palm against Emma’s cheek as she pulls the blonde toward her. “You have given me the greatest gift of a life time. You gave me freedom. My mother. Magic. Hope. You made me feel alive when I had made my peace with dying a little more every day.  And I will never forget you for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they both lean in to share one last kiss, passion seeped out of it, just a gentle, soft goodbye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leaves Lily with Henry’s anti-magic leather bracelet, just to be sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Ray returns from work that evening, still a little shaken from the events that have transpired, he finds the sitter is gone and so is the baby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What would normally have caused a panic, now just fills him with resignation. Because of course she chose her family over him, he had always known she would, and now that realization settles softly into his soul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t wanted her to choose him anyway, he tells himself as he pries a bottle of Jack Daniels from the liquor cabinet and pours himself a drink. He had work to do here, couldn’t possible interfere with her life in the future when his work <em>here</em> wasn’t done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as he settles into the chair, tasting the sickly sweetness of liquor in his cup, he sees the book he had bought for little David only a week ago. It now felt like an eternity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow White.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What were the odds?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And sticking out of the edge, just far enough to be intentional, is a note with his name on it . A letter in Mary Margaret’s handwriting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Words meant to provide comfort, but how can they when his entire life had been emptied out as if by a vacuum, leaving nothing but pristine space and haunted memories.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My Dearest Ray,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You should have known I would find a way to get the last word in. I’m not a very good liar, and I’m even worse at keeping secrets, so I wanted you to know the truth about it all. I know that won’t help you feel any better, but for my peace of mind, and hopefully one day your closure, I wanted you to know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The good news is, we did it. We found a way home for David jr. and I. We are no longer in danger, and you, my dearest, are only in the regular sort of danger that comes from trying to change an imperfect world. You will continue to fight, despite the danger ,I am sure. And I’m so unbelievably proud of you for that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The bad news is, by the time you read this, I will be long gone. I wish there was a way to live both lives, be in your arms and with my children at the same time - but I’ve spent my whole life finding my way to my daughter, and I’m not about to give that up now. And David too, I won’t lie. And none of us belong here in 1963. This is not our place, and it’s not our time. It’s yours. Do great things with it. Who am I kidding? I know you will. Please rest assured that you have changed my life for the better in the two short years I have known you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Our time here has changed all of us.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish I could tell you that things will get easier from here. But it’s not true. Things always get worse before they get better, and this is no different. So hold on. Keep your faith. Believe that good things will happen - because the fight for a better world is never over. And we all have choices to make. I have made mine. And I have to live with the consequences of it. But I will never forget the man who loved me, and the choices he made so selflessly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May you one day find your way home as well.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Love always - with honor and dignity,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mary Margaret</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emma and Killian sit on the front porch, waiting for Mary Margaret’s car to pull down the drive. She rests her head lightly on his shoulder, enjoying the soft warmth as he wraps his arm around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither one knows what they are really going back to,- not for sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they know it is not each other any longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that is fine - both were only a shadow to the other, a memory of a love far greater. And now both have vowed to find that love again, someway, somehow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now as they sit, huddled together, neither one even has the energy to cry over what they’ve lost - too giddy and excited for what they will gain. He squeezes her shoulder a little tighter and she swallows the lump in her throat as they watch the gravel churn under Mary Margaret’s car tires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David! Henry!” Emma calls over her shoulder, watching the rest of the party emerge for the shelter of the house. Rumple last of all, twirling his dagger haphazardly - a carefully placed façade of cocky confidence on his face. The twirling however is really just an anxious habit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone ready?” Henry asks as Rumple holds out the dagger, offering enough space on the hilt for Emma to place her own hands just below his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah!” David says, pulling Mary Margaret and their son close to him with one arm. “Let’s do this!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you, Miss Swan, are you ready?” he asks, an apologetic smile on his face as he watches her push down her nerves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait!” Mary Margaret interjects with a bit of nervous laughter. “What exactly are we going back to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All eyes shift nervously around the circle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Rumple begins with a slow drawl, “that’s hard to say, isn’t it? When one goes mucking about in the timeline, the waters do get a bit muddy, don’t they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t notice the way Killian flinches at his expression. The pirate wasn't the only one to leave his mark on Milah, after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should,” Rumple continues, his eyes still glued to Emma, “theoretically, be going back to right after the curse was cast. But Zelena is dead here - which means she won’t be there - which means we’ll be able to put our town back together again. Theoretically.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you keep saying it like that?” David asks, looking anxiously at the rest of the circle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, if someone changed something here - something big enough to effect <em>there</em> - then we might be going back to something different. Magic has a way of ironing out wrinkles in the timeline. Unpredictably so. Obviously there can’t be two of each of us in one place. So if enough has changed that our timelines have split, one of the copies will go poof when we arrive. But I’m fairly certain it will be our less experienced selves who disappears. Yes, <em>fairly</em> certain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean we’ll stop existing?” Mary Margret asks, clutching a little tighter to her son.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. But again, it’s such a small thing. We would have had to have changed something big. And since most of our timelines exist outside this realm, I don’t think there is much we can do to have caused that. We’ll be fine - we’ll reappear right after we left. Nothing for us Enchanted Foresters to worry about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So really,” Henry begins with a small swallow, “It’s just Emma and I who have to worry. We’re the only two who exist in this world outside of my mother’s curse. We’re the only two who might-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Rumple says with a joking grin, “Why? Have you been messing with the timeline, Henry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry shakes his head solemnly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it hurt?” Emma asks quickly. “Not existing anymore?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple turns to her, his hand brushing against hers ever so slightly on the hilt of the dagger. A gesture of comfort, undetectable to the others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all Miss Swan. Are you ready?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thinks she is. Hopes she is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both close their eyes, the rest of the circle tightening as hands grip hooks, arms snake around shoulders, and babies are clutched close to the chest. They are going home as a family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The magic swirls out, bright and blinding. But in the mess, the ripping, terrible, lurching feeling of being hurtled through space and time, they manage to hold on. No curse, or spell, or evil villain is going to separate them again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or so they can hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They land in a bit of a stumble, their circle jostled a bit, in the middle of Main Street in Storybrooke. The clock tower above them says 8:15. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night sky twinkles with stars, peaceful and perfect and happy, the way it has always been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no sign of Zelena’s curse - perhaps it has died with her. Instead there is only a cool evening breeze in a town that looks utterly unchanged from the first time it arrived in this realm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumple pockets his dagger, leans back in a mock stretch of his back as everyone else looks around the square.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is David who speaks first, confusion shifting to horror as he looks around the circle at his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are Emma and Henry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary Margaret holds her son tighter to her chest as she too begins to look around, a little startled. “Dark One, where is my daughter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ve arrived two passengers short.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Rumple never gets a chance to answer, instead interrupted by a terse call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, There you are Ms. Blanchard - we’ve been all over town looking for you! Owen has run away again and I can’t find him anywhere!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone turns slowly to see Mayor Regina Mills storming down the street, a rather frightened Dr. Hopper close on her heels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Regina?” Mary Margaret asks, twisting so that her baby is facing away from the flustered woman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes… What are you all doing out so late?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Archie?” Killian asks, stepping forward as if to touch the man whose body he had buried only a couple hours ago. “You’re alive!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why shouldn’t I be?” the bespectacled man answers. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regina huffs in annoyance. “Really, I was hoping you’d be a little more helpful. We’ve checked all of Owen’s usual places - the wishing well, his castle, the town library. He’s nowhere to be found!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why… why would I…” Mary Margaret begins to stammer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are his teacher after all,” Regina continues as if she is speaking to a moron. “Please, Ms. Blanchard, try to understand. This is my son I’m worried about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right… Why don’t you go to the diner, I’ll call the school to see if he went there…” she offers, watching Regina and Archie disappear down the street again as she turns back to the circle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s like...” David stutters, all eyes turning to fall on Mr. Gold at once "…It’s like the first curse was never broken.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins at them, his teeth sharp like a wolf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What have you done with our daughter?” Mary Margaret demands, taking a menacing step forward. “What have you done!?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry… Ms. Blanchard…” Rumple grins, stepping away from the circle. “She’s out there. You just have to find a way to her. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I believe there is a rather patient woman waiting for me in a mental asylum down the street. I intend to go find her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Belle stayed-” Killian stuttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>That</em> Belle stayed. But that was fifty years ago. Provided she passed away before the town arrived - or even just stays clear of Maine - my Belle is still waiting for me. So go. Rejoice. You’ve actually succeeded at something. Be a family again. And when you see Miss Swan - tell my son I said hello.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. The Beginning of Something New</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Portland Oregan, 2001</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal Cassidy is not having a good day. His stomach rumbles, his cloths haven’t been washed in a week, and his grainy FBI wanted poster stairs soberly back at him around every corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought leaving Phoenix would solve all those problems - thought a new city would provide new opportunities. But that wasn’t the case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had stashed his stolen goods in a bus station locker, unable to even fence them - the useless, stupid, fucking watches - and now he’s hanging around an old diner, just looking for a bite to eat and possibly a place to spend the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks about charming his way into the homes of another family like the Darlings - not quite young enough to be cute anymore, not quite old enough to flirt his way into the diner crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he’s starving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mind if I join you?” he asks a little old woman, large spectacles resting atop her head, a worn copy of Romeo and Juliet sitting on the table. She has a round, soft face, clearly beautiful in her younger days, a diamond ring hinting that she hasn’t always enjoyed her breakfast alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would a sweet, young gentleman want to eat with an old crow like myself?” she chuckles, her laugh soft and sweet like honey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal draws on every ounce of charm he has, wishing he didn’t look so disheveled. “More a swan, than a crow, I should say. Mercutio, I think? Act One?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods to the book in her hand - not his favorite, but good enough to strike up a conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Benvolio,” she chuckles. “You flatter me, but I’m not your Swan. Sit down, son. Let me buy you something to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks</em>…” He smiles, sitting down across from her as she summons the waitress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twelfth night,” she laughs. “You are just like your father, Baelfire. Quite the charmer when you want something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up, startled as she reaches for his hand, holding him to the table as he moves to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No free meal is worth that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry dear, I sent him away, too,” she smiles softly. “But I would like to talk to you. Let me just run to the restroom while you order and then we can share a nice breakfast. How does that sound?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal nods, swallowing though his throat is dry. He doesn’t much feel like eating. The woman looks kind, but if she knows his father then she is dangerous and he needs to get away from her quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, setting her purse on the table as she struggles to her feet, age weighing her down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe after breakfast we could even go for a drive,” she smiles, nodding to a little yellow bug parked out front of the diner. “That is if you and my car are here when I get back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is too distracted by the glint of the car keys sitting in her open purse to notice the laugh in her voice. Or the wink she tosses over her shoulder as she leaves him alone with the treasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks about taking the whole purse - thinks about what the money in there could buy him: a hotel, a nice meal, some new clothes - but he has learned his lesson from the watches. Sort of. Take what you need and leave the rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the car keys as soon as she is out of sight, slipping into the yellow bug quickly as he thrusts the keys into the ignition and speeds away down the street. It isn’t until later, when he crawls into the backseat to take a nap, that he notices the letter tucked into the pocket of one of the seats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is in a neat, crisp envelope, his name - his real name - scribbled across the front.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens it, gripping the paper fearfully in his hands as he takes in the words he thought himself too smart to believe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tales of a man named August. Of a curse. Of a father who promises him the world if only he can follow one simple instruction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’t run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tales of a beautiful woman who one day Neal will love more than life itself - he will love her so much he will give his life twice just to save hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what the letter tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Cassidy Island, French Polynesia, 2014</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal Cassidy and his wife sit on a beach right outside their little bungalow, watching their children play in the waves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tallahassee had been fun - but too far from the ocean for their liking. Polynesia was better. After all, who would turn down a chance to own their very own private island?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal had been skeptical of his father’s letter - any sane man would. That was until the very same woman he had been warned about - and his dad had been right, she was as smart as she was beautiful - had stolen that little yellow bug that very same afternoon. His dad had been right about another thing, too… it really was love at first sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he had figured it was worth checking into some of the other things mentioned in that letter. Some of the more unbelievable things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like the bank account in Texas. Or the mansion just outside Dallas that had been deeded to him in a rather sketchy-looking will. And because something didn’t sit quite right with the idea of taking so much money from what his research had told him had essentially been a cult, he had turned it down. Morals were more important than money - even money that had been collecting interest for fifty years at an alarming rate. Not to mention he didn’t trust his father’s promise to leave him well enough alone. Everything came at a price, and Neal knew taking that money would have strings attached. Or at least he’d thought so. And so he’d walked away from it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Emma had told him she was pregnant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, taking money from occultists didn’t feel so wrong, when he had a wedding to plan and a son’s college tuition to save for. Still, he wasn’t about to make that decision alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, sitting in a tiny apartment the two of them had rented for pennies in Tallahassee, Emma in tears because raising a baby in that hellhole seemed impossible - Raising a baby at all just felt like such a lofty goal, out of their reach - he had decided to tell her everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emma, do you want this baby?” he asked her, sitting down next to her on the couch and wrapping his arms around her shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scoffs. “Life isn’t about what I want, Neal. It’s about what we can afford.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we could afford it, would you want this baby?” he repeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What aren’t you telling me?” she laughs, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are you secretly some millionaire’s son - slumming it with us peasants for pride or fun or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that would have been a really easy explanation. He had the lie all prepared in his head. His grandfather had started a cult in Dallas. Left him everything when he died. It was there if they wanted it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that felt like lying, and anyway, he had to be sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure that Emma loved him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure that this was the life she wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure that he was doing the right thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so they spent hours going through the truth. His childhood. His father. Her destiny. Her parents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He showed her the letter, answering questions where he could, making guesses where he couldn’t. He explained that he would love her, support her, no matter what choice she made.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Head to Storybrooke and break the curse in a few years… or skip all that drama and leave with him and their son for a better life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when he’d showed her the bank statement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My God, Neal, this is enough money to buy our own private island!” she had joked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But in the end, they had done just that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it had turned out to be more than enough money. They had barley depleted a fraction of the bank account in buying their own island and naming it after their little family - Cassidy Island. The kids, of which there were three, called it Cast-Away Island and spent days running around the beach, through the thicket of jungle chasing after colorful birds, even diving under the waves to collect shells and look at coral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neal had taken up painting - mostly his family, but sometimes the beautiful location in which they were blessed to wake up every day. Emma had devoted herself to homeschooling the children - as well as learning a few new skills of her own like sailing and scuba diving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a nice life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nice and secluded, safe from magic or Neal’s father or any untimely deaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, they’d start to feel a little guilty, that they’d taken the selfish road away from their fate, but social media was great for combating those feelings. Emma followed a family on Instagram - The Nolans - who she was fairly certain were her parents. They were young and happy and raising a little boy named David jr. who had very similar features to Neal’s own children. Mrs. Nolan worked as a school teacher, Mr. Nolan a police officer, and the little boy who was only a toddler seemed to be quite the handful. They were expecting a second child, a baby boy named Raymond, to arrive any day now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every now and then, Neal would log on to Instagram and check on his family as well. Obviously they hadn’t been able to find his dad - he doubted The Dark One would be much for social media - but he’d found a woman named Belle who looked an awful lot like a granddaughter to the one he had stolen their old car from. And she posted often, pictures that definitely did have his dad in them. And a little brother named Gideon, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yeah, maybe one day the Cassidy family would head to Storybrooke - make amends and meet their families - but right now they were pretty happy the way things were.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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